


Redemption

by Adrenalineshots



Series: Beginnings [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, post-Season 1, slightly AU for season 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-06-20 06:45:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15528492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots
Summary: Set after Resurrection and Reckoning, this is the final part of the trilogy. Years have passed since the events of Reckoning and life has moved on. d'Artagnan has joined the Musketeers and the King of France has just announced the most joyous of news: the Queen is with child.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third and final installment of my Beginnings trilogy: Resurrection, Reckoning and now, Redemption.
> 
> While the first two parts take place before the start of the show, a few months after the massacre of Savoy, this last part take us right to the very end of season 1, after the announcement of the Royal pregnancy.
> 
> Most of this story was written a looooong time ago, but I had it stored away in some forgotten drawer, waiting to see the light of day once more. But now, dusty and all, here it is!
> 
> The lovely Laura Barnette was kind enough to look this over for mistakes, but if you do happen to find some, it's probably because I messed up something at some point.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

The Cardinal peered through his office window. Outside, the palace gardens were flushed with life and colour, as winter finally gave way to spring.

 

Beyond the furthest fountain, close to the east gates, four horses stood in wait with three men by their side. Even though the distance was far too great for his eyes to discern faces, there was no mistaking the distinct blue shade of their capes that identified the men as Musketeers.

 

Richelieu could even go as far as to guess who they were: Athos, Porthos and the Gascon, d’Artagnan, three of the foursome of nuisances who repeatedly insisted on meddling with his affairs.

 

They were one man short, but the Cardinal knew all too well of the whereabouts of the forth member of their band of ruffians. After all, Richelieu had just caught him in an oddly compromising position with the Queen.

 

Aramis.

 

While France could do well without the lot of the Musketeers’ regiment, those four had proven to be a major inconvenience at the worse of occasions.

 

First, there was Savoy . A brilliantly conceived plan that, in one fell swipe had managed to capture a Spanish agent and secure the King’s sister position beside the Duke of Savoy. The plan had been perfectly executed, if not for the cumbersome refusal of one Musketeer to die like the rest of his companions.

 

Then, in his quest to discover the truth about the survivors of the attack and tie any loose ends, Richelieu had seen matters further complicated by the overzealous actions of his own agent, Rochefort, as the foolish man decided to bow up an entire garrison in order to conceal his actions.

 

That agent had been lost to him, as the Cardinal had been forced to bow to the King’s wishes as it became clear that the Comte had become unstable and unreliable. Last he had hear, Rochefort had been taken prisoner by the Spanish and, God willing, was already dead.

 

After all the trouble he had gone through to discover the name of the sole survivor of Savoy, fate had delivered the answer in his hands and ensured that the matter was closed forever. Marsac, Treville had called him, a Musketeer traitor who had returned with murderous intentions towards the Duke of Savoy and the Musketeers' Captain. With him finally dead, the Cardinal could rest assured that no one else could disclosure his involvement with the whole sordid affair.

 

Milady, another of his agents, had been lost as well, her whereabouts unknown ever since the Musketeers had tried to arrest her in the aftermath of his failed plot to murder the Queen.

 

The Cardinal would not forget –most certainly not forgive- the smug look on both of those Musketeers’ faces as they dared to play him, _him_ , the First Minister of France and a man of God. And while it was true that Aramis and the others _had_ fooled him, going as far as pretend to bury one of their own, the Cardinal could not see those actions as a sign of a higher intellect, but more as a fluke of the moment. Even a simpleton worm kills a fish every so often.

 

Having just witness the overly familiarity in which the Musketeer Aramis stood in the Queen’s presence, a vile thought had begun to form inside the Cardinal’s sharp mind, a thought so despicable and horrifying that he could not suppress the chill that possessed his body.

 

For years, the Queen’s womb had been barren, or as close to such, as it seemed unwilling to bear life after her first pregnancy had ended in tears. Then, all of a sudden, she was with child.

 

To a simpler mind, the sudden turn of events certainly seemed miraculous, a blessing from the Lord upon an heirless France. The Cardinal’s mind, however, was anything but simple.

 

He alone could read between the lines, could grasp at seemingly unrelated matters, whispered secrets and random occurrences. He had no trouble in weaving them all into something truly unthinkable and unholy.

 

Like the possibility that the heir to the throne of France had been fathered by someone other than the King.

 

Inside the palace, there was little room for the Queen’s treachery and prevarications. But Anne had left those walls; she had been alone a few months past, in the wilderness, with no one else to attest to her honourable conduct but four meddling Musketeers. Anything could have happened. _Something_ had happened.

 

And if Louis was not the child’s true father…

 

The Queen would not risk going forward with a pregnancy if her treason had involved the dark skinned Musketeer, Porthos. If the child were to take after the father, it would result in the immediate death of all three of them.

 

It could not have been the former Comte either. Athos, according to Milady, had grown weary of women and his feelings towards them remained biter, to say the least.

 

So, it could only be either the Gascon or Aramis. And of those two, there was only one who the Cardinal had just witness acting in the most suspicious way with the Queen, both escaping the boundaries of their individual stances like it was a practiced action. Like two people who had consorted intimately before.

 

Aramis. Always that accursed name, haunting him everywhere, even Adele's dying lips.

 

“It ends now,” the Cardinal growled, no one but God to hear his fervent promise.

 

Richelieu was no fool. He was more than well aware that not all of royal lineage had been conceived in the royal bed.

 

There were rumours aplenty of kings and queens throughout the kingdoms who invited others to their royal beds. Some through sheer depravity, others in desperate hope of providing the kingdom with an heir and save the people from civil war and chaos.

 

No, the child was not what troubled him. No matter his origins, the fruit of the Queen’s womb would be the next ruler of France . But the mere possibility that others could reach the same conclusions as the Cardinal had, the mere thought that this child’s bloodline could ever be questioned, that was something that Richelieu could not contemplate.

 

There was only one way to assure that the child’s siring would never be questioned, for the heir to throne could have one father alone, the King.

 

Once more he was the one left with the hard decisions. Even if, at least this once, the decision wasn’t all that hard to make. May God forgive him.

 

For the sake of France ’s security and prosperity, for the protection of the people, there was only one course of action to take.

 

The Musketeer Aramis had to die.

 

 

 


	2. Blue

~§~

 

“I'm not saying we shouldn't celebrate it,” Aramis let out, taking off his hat to scrub at his hair. “Just--”

 

“Good…'cause we are,” Porthos cut in, giving the other man no room to present his argument and treating that as a victory. “And this time, we're doing it properly!”

 

“Dare I ask what ' _properly_ ' would normally involve?” d'Artagnan pried, a look of feigned fear on his face, even as he stuffed another piece of meat into his mouth, chewing in a manner that would always certainly earn him a good whacking on the head from Constance.

 

“Knowing Porthos,“ Athos joined in with a rare smile, “it will probably require copious amounts of wine, a roasting pig, at least three scantily-dressed women and, of course, a dancing bear. Again.”

 

“It was hardly a bear,” Porthos protested, seeing d'Artagnan's eyes grow huge with an expression that was a small part fear and whole lot curiosity. “More like a large, furry dog...”

 

“I do remember that the dress was rather adorable,” Aramis added, leaning back in his seat, closing his eyes with a content smile as he savored the memory.

 

“On...the dog?” D'Artagnan offered, looking cross-eyed as he tried to picture the scene.  


“Nonsense!” Aramis let out, startled by the idea. “On the ladies, of course!”

 

“One dress,” Athos pointed out, raising three fingers rather pointedly, reminding the young man of the number of women sharing it. “Although, I'm surprised you remember anything at all,” he added, one brow rising in amusement. “I recall the two of us carrying your senseless, drunken self to your rooms,” the older Musketeer pointed out, his words without venom. “ _After_ you'd emptied your dinner all over our boots and declared your undying love for the Captain in front of the whole garrison.”

 

“Aye...and all he did was offer ya a day off....”

 

D'Artagnan was twisting in his seat, hands around his belly as he burst out laughing. “Dancing 'bears'...Aramis in his cups,” he listed, looking from one to the other of the men sitting around him. “When did this all happen?”

 

“Four years now,” Porthos said too fast, like someone who had been keeping tabs on the passage of time. “Which was about the last time we did it right, so this year...”

 

“Can't it just be—”

 

“No,” Porthos voiced very decisively. “Three years ago we had that thing with the stolen horses, and the year after that Aramis was sick as a dog,” he added, using his fingers to count the reasons. “I kept my mouth shut last year, because...ya know,” he said, a hint of sadness in his eyes as he remembered that, at the time, Aramis had been mourning the death of Marsac by his own hand. “But this year...I'll be a bloody donkey if we're not celebrating yer birthday the proper way!”

 

Aramis nodded, admitting defeat. There was no stopping Porthos when he was set on doing something. Like a force of Nature, that man was.

 

Truth was, the marksman didn't felt like celebrating much of anything, least of all his birthday.

 

While the Queen's announcement had filled him with joy, it had not lasted long. Too soon the dangerous situation that they were heading into had sunk in and all that Aramis could see in his future was loss and heartache for everyone that he loved.

 

“So, what do you propose then?” he asked, resigned, fake excitement masking his worries. If anything, Porthos' ideas were always inventive and entertaining. And distracting.

 

He certainly needed that.

 

“Not saying,” the tall man offered, his smile deep enough to dimple his cheeks. “Just... be prepared for anything.”

 

Aramis blinked. “Anything...,” he pondered. “Are we talking about a birthday celebration or the invasion of a small country?”

 

“Can't see why it can't be both, really,” Porthos offered nonchalantly, loudly munching on an apple.

 

“Perhaps you gentlemen can save your plans of world domination for _after_ you’ve done your job,” Treville's voice said from above. Looking up, the four Musketeers could see the older man holding a piece of parchment in his hand. “The King has summoned us to the palace. Get yourselves presentable and saddle up.”

 

Porthos looked at himself, then around the table, smoothing the wrinkles on his shirt. “We're perfectly presentable, aren't we?”

 

Aramis rose from his seat, a smile playing over his lips. “Some more than others, my friend,” he said, ruffling d'Artagnan's hair into even greater disarray. “Some more than others.”

 

~§~

 

“The journey to Mont Saint Michel must be undertaken as soon as possible, given Her Majesty's delicate condition,” the Cardinal declared, the look of concern in his cold eyes appearing almost genuine.

 

“I am with child, Cardinal, not diseased,” the Queen corrected. Her hand caressed the barely visible bump in her belly. The presence of life inside made her feel stronger and bolder than ever before.

 

In his joy at the prospect of becoming a father, there was precious little that the King denied her these days. Even the leave to speak so harshly to the First Minister.

 

The Cardinal bowed, not for one second looking contrite in his gesture. Anne was well aware that she had no one else to blame but herself for still having to endure the vile man. Allowing the Cardinal to live after confirming his undeniable guilt in the plot to murder her had felt like the pious thing to do, a small token to atone for the guilt of having betrayed the holy vows of matrimony. She had taken a mortal enemy under her wing, one that stood too close to the King for comfort and there was no turning back now.

 

“Forgive me if my words sounded derogatory, Highness, but my only concern was for the safety of the child and Yourself,” the Cardinal politely offered. “It is a two-day journey, one best not undertaken too close to the birth of the Dauphin.”

 

“Must we?” the King inquired, his tone belaying just how ecstatic he was at the prospect of sitting inside a carriage for two whole days.

 

Ever since Richelieu had mentioned the blessing ceremony at the monastery of St. Michel, Louis had not stopped complaining about all the preparations necessary for the journey.

 

The first time she had been with child, the Cardinal himself had arranged for a ceremony at Notre Dame to bless the baby and beg God for His protection and the health of the future Dauphin. In the end, it had amounted to nothing, for the child had been lost all the same.

 

This time, the Cardinal insisted that the blessing should be made on an island off the northern coast of France, where Saint Michael was believed to have made an appearance. And who better to protect the King's son than the Archangel himself?

 

Louis had, of course, been anything but delighted with the idea of leaving the palace and traveling to the coast. Beside the boredom of being confined to the inside of a carriage with nothing to do but listen to the women talk, there was the whole circus surrounding any dislocation of the royal couple outside the protective walls of their residence, for which the King had no patience whatsoever.

 

“Your great ancestor, Louis XI, founded the order of St. Michel, Your Majesty,” Richelieu reminded him, “so that it may protect the noble house of the Kings of France.”

 

Louis rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes...I'm well aware of that. But is all of this...ruckus…truly necessary? The people love me! They would never consider to do me any harm... or the baby! France has been expecting the arrival of this child for years!”

 

From her seat beside him, Anne could easily see the discreet look that Treville and Richelieu exchanged. For all that the two disagreed about how to do most things, they seemed to share the same burden of keeping a straight face when Louis said foolish things like just then.

 

“While that may be so,” Treville voiced, as always politely not agreeing or disagreeing with the King, “I must agree with the Cardinal on the matter of Your Majesties' safety. While there is no question that a troop of Musketeers will escort the royal convoy to Mont St Michel….” He cast a look in Richelieu's direction defying the man to say otherwise. At the other man's silence, he proceeded, “I would feel much more comfortable if a few of my men scouted the roads leading to the coast, to make sure that no unpleasant surprises disturb Your Majesties' journey.”

 

Standing behind Treville, Anne could see four of his Musketeers, certainly the ones the Captain had in mind for such a delicate mission. For the first time since they had entered the room, she allowed herself to look at them. It was easy to recognize the familiar faces of Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan.

 

And Aramis.

 

Even though their eyes had not met even once, for fear of what they might give away in a room with so many watching, Anne could feel his presence like a physical thing, pressing against her bosom, stealing the very breath from her chest. Her hand pressed unconsciously against the place where she knew their child to be growing, wondering if the baby could sense his father's proximity and feel his protection.

 

“Of course,” Louis said, his hand moving to cover hers. “Anything to assure Anne’s -- and the Dauphin's -- safety.”

 

Louis gave her a reassuring smile, perhaps thinking that her gesture had been one of fear for the unborn child. It was moments like these that the King made her feel like a terrible person for the lie that she told him every single day, for the lie she would tell him until the day of her death. Dooming her immortal soul with every deceit that escaped her lips.

 

But lie she must, for the sake of France, for her child could never be nothing more and nothing less than the King's heir.

 

~§~

 

“Do you understand what you must do?” the Cardinal asked, his eyes piercing as he looked at the man in front of him. With Rochefort in Spain and Milady nowhere to be found, he had resigned himself to hire a thug from the streets, a common assassin to do his bidding.

 

The man didn't look as bad as some he had met before. At least this one still had all of his teeth, even if the horrible smell of street filth and general uncleanness clung to him like a wool on a lamb.

 

“Aye, ya wants us t'kill a Musketeer, clean and sure,” the outlaw said, the gleam in his eyes telling of a man who truly loved his work.

 

“Not 'a' Musketeer,” Richelieu corrected, quickly losing his patience. For all of her many shortcomings, at least Milady had been capable of maintaining an intelligent conversation. “I need you and your men to kill a specific one: Aramis.”

 

“And how're we 'sposed to know which one tha' is?”

 

A valid question. The best way the Cardinal could think of describing the Musketeer was asinine and blasphemous, but he understood that such words would not help point him out in a crowd. “There will be four of them traveling, one of darker complexion and three lighter ones. Of those three, your mark will be the one with dark hair, pointed bear and wearing a hat with a horribly long feather.”

 

The hired thug gave the Cardinal an odd look. “Beg yer Serenity's forgiveness,” he said in a pathetic attempt at politeness. “But I've seen Musketeers around...they all seem t' 've a beard. And dark hair. And leather... lots 'f it.”

 

Richelieu looked up, begging the Lord for piety and patience. For a moment he considered if it wouldn't just be easier to order the death of all four and be done with it. However, he remembered all too well how horribly wrong the last attempt had gone, and in the hands of a more capable killer. The Cardinal knew better than most that Musketeers, like cockroaches, were exceptionally hard to kill. It was best to concentrate the group's efforts on a single task.

 

What else could he offer the dim-witted thug to ensure that he killed the right man? “A blue sash,” the Cardinal offered, remembering seeing it around Aramis' waist just a few hours before. Now that he thought on the matter, the Musketeer seemed to never be without it. “He favors a ridiculous blue sash, one he tends to wear around his waist. That's the man you must kill.”

 

~§~

 

“I really hate tha' man,” Porthos let out for what felt like the millionth time. The sentiment, however, always felt fresh.

 

“Peace, my friend,” Athos replied with a smile, wiping the sweat from his brow. The day was turning uncharacteristically hot and sunny, something that would not bother him much, had his hat not been lost to the river the last time they had stopped to water the horses. One second it had been securely covering his head, the next nearly a mile down, curtesy if a gush of wind and the strong, fast current. “I doubt the Cardinal made up this journey just to spite your plans.”

 

“Ya can't know that, can ya?” the big man pointed out. Of course he was well aware that Richelieu's timing for convincing the King and Queen to travel all the way to the coast had been a mere coincidence, but still, he needed someone to blame for ruining his plans for Aramis' birthday. As it was, it seemed like they would be spending the intended day on the road to Mont St. Michel, covered in dust and sleeping on the hard ground. “Besides, got myself plenty of reason t' hate the man without havin' him come up with anything else.”

 

None of the others could really disagree with him there. The Cardinal had been making life difficult for the Musketeers in general ever since the regiment had been formed, but he seemed to have a set of particular grievances with the four of them, a sentiment well shared.

 

Porthos had never forgotten the First Minister’s involvement in Aramis' imprisonment and torture a few years before, or how the vile man had managed to escape the whole debacle with barely a wrinkle on his robes.

 

After that, it had been one provocation after the other, their displeasure with the Cardinal often translated into skirmishes with the Red Guards, in lieu of punching Richelieu himself.

 

Their latest confrontation with the First Minister had brought some comfort too, even if Porthos would have felt much happier if the Queen had been a tad less merciful and had allowed them to execute the Cardinal as the traitor that he was.

 

Somehow, that was a decision that Porthos felt sure would come back to bite them in their collective asses.

 

“Up ahead,” Athos called out, pointing at the sharp edges of a castle they could see up ahead. They had left the Comte d'Rouen's estate the day before, after having the pleasure of informing him and his wife that they would be hosting the Royal party in just a few days’ time. From there, there was nothing but open road, along the coast, up to the castle of Mont St. Michel. 

 

There was still a way to go, but from its perch on top of the hill, the monastery was easy to spot even from a great distance. 

 

“Yer starting to look like overcooked salmon,” Porthos pointed out, the mirth covering a touch of very real concern. “Yer sure ya don't want my hat? It's better than melting yer brains....”

 

“I'm perfectly fine, my friend,” Athos replied, once again refusing the offer. Although he had said little about it, it was easy to see that he felt slightly miffed about having lost his hat in such a ridiculous way. “No reason for you to suffer the sun in my stead because of one foolish mishap. Besides, we'll reach our destination shortly.” 

 

Porthos knew how hard it was to get a new hat to sit perfectly on one's head, to shape it in the exact way that would be comfortable and secure. He did not envy Athos’ position. Still, it was no reason for the man to insist on suffering like that.

 

“Porthos is right,” Aramis pointed out, reining his horse to a stop. “Here, use this instead,” he said, pulling out the sash that he usually wore around his waist to pad his weapons' belts. “You can wear it like a Moor or the Virgin Mary, I really don't care which... but for the love of God, protect yourself from the sun. My skin's hurting just from looking at you.”

 

Very reluctantly, Athos picked up the proffered cloth. Without a word, he emptied the contents of his waterskin on the cloth before wrapping it around his head and neck. The end result was that of an odd, sulking Sultan. Porthos couldn't help but snigger.

 

“Care to share?” Athos asked, his left eyebrow disappearing somewhere underneath the blue sash.

 

The vibrant color really brought out the freckles that had started to spot their fearless leader's face, making Porthos laugh even harder. “'tis only...most people' skin turns brown under t' sun, but you...” he let out with a hearty chuckle, “ya look like an army of dirty-feet ants took a stroll down yer face!” he let out, dissolving into giggles. “Teeny, tiny ants!”

 

Athos gave him a pointed look, only to be distracted by two other sets of chuckles. “It is fortunate that it takes only a few spots on a man's face to amuse you gentlemen so,” he stated, trying to keep a straight face. It was easy to see that he was quickly losing his composure as well. This was, after all, hardly the first time that he had been taunted by his friends this way. “However, I do believe we have a mission to complete,” he added, looking straight at Porthos as he spoke. “Unless you prefer to spend the evening on the road instead of at the monastery....”

 

Porthos bit down on his laughter, quickly understanding Athos' meaning. Tomorrow would be Aramis' birthday and, while they would make sure to celebrate no matter where they were, the monastery would be much more pleasurable than a dirt road.

 

“Well, what are we waiting for then?” he asked, kicking his horse into a run, the sound of his joyous laugh lingering behind like a trail of smoke.

 

~§~

 

The man tipped his hat back, looking at the valley below. The sound of laughter drifted on the wind, oddly disconnected from the jolly men traveling the road.

 

He looked at the group standing behind him, hidden from view, all sharp-eyed and eager for action. The payment they had been promised for this job was more than enough to insure the death of all four men, but their patron had insisted on them hitting a single mark.

 

Of course all of them had already heard of the Musketeers and how good they were in a fight, but never having faced one before, they could not help but wonder how much of that was truth and how much was just rumors, spread to install fear in the King's enemies.

 

Be that as it may, if it was only one target the Cardinal wanted dead, then they would do just that. Or they could win some reputation for themselves, as the men who’d ended four of the most prestigious of the King's soldiers.

 

The way he saw it, the others could deal with the remaining three as he took care of his target. One well-placed musket ball and the Musketeer Aramis would be gone forever. How ironically poetic.

 

The blue sash that the Cardinal had mentioned was easy enough to spot, wrapped around the man's head like a painted target. This was going to be so easy, it was almost criminal.

 

~§~

 


	3. The warning

 

There was a soft and pleasant ache in his cheeks, from laughing so hard. It felt like too long since Aramis had been able put his troubles aside for a few moments and simply enjoy the company of his brothers. Of course, two of those brothers had no idea what he had done or of the dire consequences that his actions could bring to all of them, but still...it felt good to be out of Paris and able to ignore his misfortune for a few days.

 

The road to Rouen was a well-travelled one, filled with peregrines on their way to the Cathedral for the Easter ceremonies, or with travelers and sailors, on their way to the port of l'Havre.

 

While he understood and commended the Captain's over-protection of the royal couple, none of them were truly expecting to find trouble on the first half of the journey. It was the long stretch of land alongside the coast, from l'Havre to Mont St. Michel, that posed the bigger threat.

 

Still, the journey had been so peaceful and relaxed up to this point that trouble seemed to have avoided them altogether. Which was why he almost ignored the sudden chill up the back of his neck, one that told him someone was watching them. Covertly looking around, Aramis searched the surrounding woods for the source of a feeling he had long learned not to ignore.

 

To their right, he could hear the rushing river beyond the edge of the forest, hidden from view. To their left, a hill rose steadily until it touched the sky. A short distance away, almost on the hill top, a flock of birds took flight in a rush. In an otherwise peaceful stretch of woodland, it was the only sign that the experienced Musketeer needed to know that something was wrong. “AMBUSH!”

 

Aramis' warning shout came seconds before the blast that tore the ground apart just a few feet ahead of them. Dazed by the explosion, the marksman allowed his horse free reign, as the animal to veer to the side, spooked by the noise.

 

Their ears still ringing from the explosion, the four Musketeers could hardly hear the sounds of pistols discharging, even if the shards of wood and small clouds of dirt on ground and trees around them were more than enough to let them know they were under fire.

 

The air quickly filled with burnt gunpowder and smoke. Senses pushed to the limit, Aramis tried to take it all in in the span of a breath.

 

Dust hung in the air, covering the valley like a brown mist that made it almost impossible to locate those responsible for the attack with any accuracy. The explosion in the middle of the road had effectively divided them in two, Porthos and d’Artagnan escaping to one side, Athos and Aramis to the other.

 

As Aramis watched, pistol poised and searching for a target, Athos jerked on top of his horse, mouth opened in surprise as blood gushed out. Their eyes met for a fleeting second before the wounded Musketeer lost control of his horse and fell to the ground, unmoving.

 

“Athos!”

 

As one, the remaining Musketeers jumped from their mounts and closed ranks around their wounded leader, d'Artagnan and Porthos dragging him back and seeking shelter behind the trees while Aramis provided cover for them. The trees weren't much of a protection, but at least it meant that the people shooting at them would need much better aim to hot their targets.

 

There wasn't time to look at Athos too closely or do anything to help him. If they didn't start shooting back, soon they would be all join him.

 

“Up there!” Porthos shouted, finally managing to spot their attackers.

 

From the weapons he had heard already, Aramis had guessed at least five assailants, possibly each one carrying two pistols. Now, however, he could see that there were more than that running down the hill, most of them having saved their pistols to shoot at a closer range. He could count fourteen, using the trees as a shield, the same as them.

 

The attackers, however, did not have the marksman's uncanny ability with firearms, nor Porthos' and d'Artagnan's skill with a pistol. Despite chaos surrounding the Musketeers and the gnawing need to get back to Athos' side, not one ball was wasted, each finding their mark with deadly accuracy.

 

Aramis saw the top of a head at a distance, the man carefully peering around his tree to determine where the Musketeers were. His eyes had time to register absolutely nothing, as Aramis' musket ball found its target. The man fell back, dead before he hit the ground, a smoking third eye opened right between two unseeing ones.

 

Two of his companions came to a sudden stop in order to avoid tripping on the dead body, only to discover that Aramis was just as deadly with his left hand as he was with his right. The ball ripped through the first man's neck, before coming to a rest inside the second man's chest, dropping them both.

 

The attacker to their left must have seen the impossible shot and lost his nerve, or simply slipped on the steep ground. Porthos didn't give him a chance to find his courage or regain his footing, the pistol ball tearing across his chest in a spurt of red. A second shot quickly followed, finding its place on another man's knee. The unstoppable fall and a sturdy tree finished the job for Porthos.

 

D'Artagnan, gambling that most of the villains’ aim was less true than theirs and that Athos’ injury had been an unfortunate mixture of lucky shot and bad luck, offered himself as bait. Risky as it was, it presented him with two targets at once, a chance he didn't waste. Firing both of his pistols, the young Musketeer barely felt the sting of bark against his cheek, as the returning fire flew too close to his face before hitting a tree. Instead, his attention was fully on his mark, watching in satisfaction as both his shots found a life to take.

 

Seeing their numbers so easily struck down to half, the rest of the group decided to join strengths and attack as one.

 

Being far from the first charge of enemy fire that Porthos and Aramis had seen in their lives, they didn't even blink as they stood their ground, steadily reloading their pistols, taking aim as one and effectively taking out two more villains.

 

There was no more time to reload after that, the remaining assailants close enough now to see the whites of their eyes. Pistols tossed aside, three blades were unsheathed, ready to be put to use before any of the trained soldiers could think on their actions.

 

Aramis dispatched one of his attackers fairly quickly, the man's skill with a sword sorely lacking and his breath short and ragged after running down the hill.

 

Fighting perhaps with more anger and viciousness than what was advisable, the marksman advanced on another opponent, thrusting his rapier deep into the man's chest, feeling a small measure of satisfaction as the blade pierced through skin, muscle and bone, sinking all the way into the man's spine with a thud that vibrated up the Musketeer's arm and into his teeth.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Porthos and d'Artagnan fending off the remaining men, holding their own steadily. It was the two targeting Athos that made his heart race and bile rush to his mouth.

 

“Athos!”

 

Aramis pulled at his sword, the blade stuck between the villain's bones. Not giving it another thought, he simply left it behind and ran towards his friend. The distance was short, but his feet seemed to be moving through the thickest of honey, his movements slow and hindered by the very air around them.

 

Fearing that he would reach them too late, Aramis threw his _main gauche_ , the blade flying a lot faster than his feet. His aim with a musket was, however, far better than with a blade, the dagger missing its target entirely.

 

In the midst of the sound of clashing metal, the single pistol shot rang across the valley with the force of cannon fire, thudding inside Aramis' chest like a drum from Hell. For a terrifying moment, he was sure that Athos was lost to them.

 

However, it wasn’t his friend's body that he saw falling to the dirt, but rather one of the men who had neared the fallen Musketeer. A pistol, still smoking, fell across Athos' lap, his arm apparently devoid of any remaining strength.

 

The swordsman's eyes, however, were wide open and alert, staring daggers at the remaining attacker, still advancing on him.

 

Aramis did not stop to think why the assailants seemed to be so invested in ending Athos' life; he did not consider the fact that he had no weapon left; he simply charged.

 

In a move that he had seen Porthos perform time and time again, Aramis ran at the assassin at full speed, hitting the man's chest with his shoulders, like a battering ram.

 

The force of the impact propelled both of them forwards, straight into the slopping terrain. Caught by surprise, both spiraled down, an unstoppable motion that only came to an end as the two men hit the rushing water.

 

~§~

 

Athos' chest felt like someone had lit a fire inside. He had come to his senses in the midst of a battle, the sounds and images around him at once familiar and confusing.

 

The last thing he remembered was riding with the others, his mind already occupied with the stretch of the journey after Rouen.

 

Aramis had pulled his horse to a stop seconds before an explosion shook the air around them, and after that....

 

He supposed that he had been shot, evidence of that much clear from the hot and sticky mess he could feel inside his doublet. Also, the round hole in the leather, just under his right collarbone, was very telling.

 

The familiar sound of clashing swords was all around and Athos took some comfort in the knowledge that his friends were still standing and able, still fighting.

 

His relief, however, was short-lived as he saw the two men moving towards him. Any other time, such a short number of opponents would have been of no consequence for him, but on this day they found him barely able to breathe, much less fight.

 

His pistol, Athos realized, was still strapped to his belt. With an odd sense of detachment, the swordsman pulled the weapon free with his left hand, aimed and fired, his fingers barely feeling like a part of himself.

 

Not trusting his usual aim, Athos waited until he could see the man's features in detail, until he could see the murderous intent in the villain's eyes. Only then, when the distance was too near for a child to miss, did Athos trusted his shaking fingers and cloudy sight. The attacker flew back, the force of the impact snapping his forward progression in half, like a whip coiling back.

 

Athos had caught a glimpse of look of utter surprise in the attacker's face just before the killing shot hit him; the Musketeer must have presented such a poor sight that the other man had been fully confident that the pistol aimed at his chest would never be fired.

 

An engulfing calm settled over the injured Musketeer. Athos knew he would never be able to fire his second pistol, his right arm all but useless at his side and the weapon simply too far for his left arm to reach. He had been able to fend off one his killers; the other was free to put him out of his misery. He had lived long enough, suffered more than he could bear. Athos was ready to meet his Maker and present Him with his complaints.

 

A roar, almost animalistic in nature, snapped Athos from his trance. Had he not known the man almost as well as he knew his own reflection, Athos would have not recognized the blur of color and flesh that crossed his field of vision before colliding with his would-be assassin.

 

Athos could do little more than hold his breath as he saw both men tumble and roll towards the river in an uncontrolled fall. “Aramis!”

 

Forgetting about his own injury, Athos surged forward, desperate to help his friend. The river was not very wide, but its waters ran deep and fast, a challenge even for the best of swimmers. Which Aramis was not.

 

His body made sure to remind Athos that there was an extra hole in his chest and that moving was not the wisest of choices. Fire surged across his ribs, stealing whatever breath he had left and narrowing his vision to a pinpoint, where all he could see was the spot where Aramis had disappeared from view.

 

An eternity must have passed, or perhaps just a few seconds until Athos felt a strong hand on his shoulder, pushing him on his back.

 

He tensed, trying to jerk away, only to have his efforts rewarded with more pain.

 

“Peace, Athos,” a familiar voice called out, the sound reaching him as if from deep inside a well. “Stop moving, please…you’re hurt.”

 

D’Artagnan. Even though he could barely see the young man, the concern and juvenile worry in his voice was one that Athos would always recognize. He cherished it, as it reminded him of a time when he, too, had been innocent.

 

“Aram... is…” Athos tried to say. He could feel the edges of his consciousness growing dimmer and blurrier. If they had not seen the marksman going over the bank and he failed to pass on that information before his senses fled completely, Aramis would be lost. “He…”

 

“Hush now,” Porthos ordered, his big hand lying flat against the uninjured side of Athos’ chest, effectively pinning him to the ground. “Let us help ya.”

 

When he had gone from sitting against a tree to lying in the dirt completely escaped Athos’ comprehension. “You... don’t understand…—“ he tried again. “Aramis...”

 

He could see the others stealing furtive glances around, also looking for the missing Musketeer, but their gaze always returned to the blood covering his shirt and leathers, clearly deciding that he was the more pressing matter.

 

“We’ll look for ‘im in a second, don’t you worry,” Porthos said, trying for reassuring and failing miserably as his words came out immersed in concern. “He’s probably chasing the horses, trying t' get that dreadful sewing kit of his,” the large man went on. His hands, when he raised them to pull the blue sash from Athos’ head to use as a bandage, were covered in blood. “And this is certainly gonna need some needle work…”

 

“You don’t understand!” Athos shouted, feeling the last of his reserves ripping away with the force he placed behind it. “The river! Aramis... Help him!”

 

There was a moment of stunned silence that they could not really afford, and then Porthos and d’Artagnan, finally understanding the gravity of the situation, surged into action.

 

 

 

 


	4. Decisions

 

Porthos could not help but think that this whole mess was somehow his fault, as if invoking the Cardinal’s name had attracted trouble their way.

 

No one had been expecting something like this, not on that road, and not in broad daylight. The path was too well-travelled and close to the city for any robber worth his salt to try anything.

 

And that was if those men had actually been robbers.

 

It had not escaped anyone’s attention that the attackers had concentrated their efforts around Athos, trying their worst to send the swordsman to the other side of the veil.

 

Right now, however, he had more pressing matters on his mind, like figuring out what kind of trouble Aramis had managed to get himself in. The only thing that Porthos found more terrifying than one of his brothers hurt, was two of them.

 

Confident that the group of attackers was too dead to cause any more concern, he had left d’Artagnan to help Athos – Lord, there had been too much blood on the swordsman’s clothes -- and ran to the riverside.

 

It was easy to see where the shrubbery had been crushed and torn apart by the passage of a body, two bodies if he was seeing it right, and exactly where they had fallen into the river. A solitary boot, too unfamiliar to belong to Aramis, lay discarded by the river bank, confirming the Musketeer's idea that Aramis had not fallen alone.

 

One thing that Porthos could not find, thank God, was blood. It was bad enough that his brother had gotten himself in the river; worse even, in the river with one of their attackers. To have found evidence of a wound would have made very hard for Porthos to hold on to any hope of finding Aramis alive.

 

As fast as the water was flowing, the tall man had no expectations about finding anyone in that portion of the river. Racing along the bank, the Porthos found himself sending up a prayer to Aramis’ God, to find the marksman, to find him unharmed. Because, desperate as the Musketeer was to find hisbrother, the notion of what he might find, terrified him.

 

When his eyes caught on a pile of dark clothing, trapped against two stones in the middle of the river, Porthos' heart all but stopped. Right there and then, all he could see was the embodiment of his worst nightmare. It was clearly a man’s body, but the only visible part was the person’s back with everything else below the surface of the furious water.

 

Whoever that was, he had either learned to breathe like a fish or was long dead.

 

Just as Porthos was about to throw caution to the wind and venture into the river to see for himself who was the dead man, Fate intervened in his favor.

 

Water slapped against the rocks, the turmoil causing the body to edge free and turn around. Before the current could snatch it once more, Porthos was able to get a glimpse of the dead man’s face. His forehead and eyes were covered in blood and deformed, clearly from bouncing around the sharp edged rocks hidden beneath the surface of the water, making it impossible to pinpoint any defining features. The lower half of his face, however, was hidden behind a dark piece of cloth, like the rest of the band who had attacked them had been wearing.

 

Porthos’ legs grew weak with relief. It wasn’t Aramis.

 

It was a poor excuse for a reprieve, but one that Porthos welcomed with all his heart, for finding the dead attacker meant that Aramis was still out there, hopefully alive. Lord! He had to be alive, or else Porthos was going to kill him.

 

So intent were Porthos’ eyes on the river and its banks that, when he did find Aramis, he almost stepped on him. “Aramis!”

 

The fallen Musketeer was sprawled on the wet mud, lying on his side, soaked to the bone. With his hair plastered to his face and covering most of his features, it was nearly impossible for Porthos to see if the marksman was breathing or...

 

“Aramis!” he called again, crouching beside his friend, gently pushing his hair back. “Come on now…don’t make me slap ya awake,” Porthos threatened pointlessly, frightened by Aramis’ stillness. His eyes quickly ran over his friend's body, searching for odd shapes and protruding bones. Satisfied that he found none, Porthos' gaze returned to the smaller man’s chest. For the life of him, Porthos could not discern if it was moving or not and the uncertainty ate at his nerves until he was close to losing his mind.

 

Despair started to sink its teeth in as seconds trickled by and Aramis remained unresponsive. At a loss on what to do, Porthos grabbed him by his shoulders, resisting the urge to rattle his senseless friend. If death had already taken hold on him...

 

Aramis started to move so suddenly and with such violence that Porthos was forced to fumble his hold, lest he let his brother fall and add to his injuries. He held on with all his might, feeling the muscles underneath his touch tremble and shudder.

 

At first, it seemed like Aramis was having some sort of fit, making Porthos worry that he was witnessing his friend's final moments. It was only when he realized that the trembling was dissolving into raging coughs that Porthos allowed himself to relax ever so slightly before maneuvering his charge into an easier position to expel the river from his insides.

 

~§~

 

Aramis came to violently, as his body tried to cough up and vomit all the water he had unwillingly drunk, lungs attached and all.

 

As the spasms subsided, the hand rubbing his back and the soft words of encouragement slowly registered. He let himself sink into the familiar comfort.

 

“Tha's it, mate,” the voice said, “better out than in, I always say...there ya go. Breathe, Aramis, breathe. Nice and easy.”

 

The Musketeer did as he was told, his body apparently needing the reminder about such a basic task. The fresh air that he pulled in tasted as abrasive as the water had felt coming out, but like a starved man unperturbed by raw meat or rotten fruit, he kept on hauling more and more inside.

 

“Easy now,” the voice went on, strong arms pulling him up until Aramis found himself sitting up, his back secured against a warm body. “Ya need t' calm down, or yer gonna make yerself sick again.”

 

Porthos.

 

The name carried with it the weight of long years of friendship and the memories of all that had happened between them, including the last couple of hours. “Athos!” Aramis gasped out, setting off another coughing fit.

 

The last he had seen of the older man, Athos had been nearly senseless, barely able to fend for himself in the middle of the fight.

 

Aramis knew that he had pushed away the more immediate threat to his friend's life, but what had happened after his fall into the river, he had no way of knowing. And what of d'Artagnan? Why did Porthos stood alone with him without any of the others?

 

“They're safe,” Porthos was quick to assure, once more showing his uncanny ability to guess what his brothers were thinking as easily as if they'd spoken out loud. “He stayed with Athos while I came to find where ya'd wandered off to,” he added with a dry chuckle that was part relief and part nervousness.

 

Letting the words sink in, Aramis looked around, unable to recognize any of their surroundings. “Whe—where are we?”

 

“Somewhere down t' river,” Porthos supplied, looking in the opposite direction. “I figure we're about a lieue away from t' others.”

 

Aramis blinked, thinking he had misheard the distance. He remembered the feeling of hitting the water and being tossed around like a feather in a storm, but after that his memories were nothing but a series of flashes and the monstrous decision that he had taken in order to survive. “I don't remember being in the river for that long...” he confessed.

 

Porthos nodded, looking at the river like it was something that he wanted to punch. “T'water’s running pretty fast, through some really sharp rocks. Ya're lucky ya made it this far alive and in one piece.”

 

Aramis gave him a weak smile. It hadn't been luck, not for the entire path. He remembered grabbing on to the attacker that had fallen with him and twisting their bodies around, using the other man as a shield. He remembered feeling the jolt as they were both thrown against a large rock. The sound of the other man's spine, snapping in half, was one that would haunt Aramis' dreams for a very long time.

 

It hadn't been murder, not exactly, but the thin line between killing in battle and deliberately taking another's life for the sake of survival... that line had been undoubtedly broken the moment Aramis knew that his attacker could do nothing to defend himself from the brutal power of Nature and used him to save his own life.

 

Still, he could not find the strength to feel guilty about his actions in that very moment. Perhaps later, when he was sure that all of his friends were safe and that Athos' wound would not rob him of his life. Then, and only then, the Musketeer could regret his less-than-honorable actions.

 

“Can ya walk?” Porthos asked hopefully. They had quite the length to travel and both were well aware that it was not safe to leave d'Artagnan alone with a wounded brother. But if Aramis could not make the journey on his own, Porthos would have no choice but to stay with him and hope that the attack on the road had been a solitary event.

 

Aramis held on to Porthos as the taller man helped him to his feet. The world wavered around him for a second, the dirt beneath his feet cresting and waving more like the high sea than solid ground.

 

Bile rose in his throat and for a moment, Aramis was certain that he was going to be sick again. Breathing too deeply hurt inside his chest, so he opted for not breathing at all, hoping that the moment would pass.

 

“This ain't going t' work,” Porthos whispered, his words kind and filled with concern. One of his hands had moved from Aramis' elbow to grasp the back of his neck, pushing forward until the marksman's head was resting against his broad chest.

 

Aramis breathed in leather and the smell of gunpowder and horse, earthy scents that almost made him forget about the washed-out flavor of the water that had been forced into his mouth and the sloshing feeling inside his stomach. Underneath the layers of clothing and muscle, he could hear Porthos' heart, steady and strong. “I'm good,” Aramis whispered after a while, when he felt that the nausea was under control. “Besides, we must hurry back and tell Athos that he was right,” he added with a weak smile.

 

Although he could not see the big man's face, Aramis could guess his confused expression perfectly down to the raised eyebrow.

 

“'bout what?”

 

“Water's very bad for your health,” Aramis supplied, spitting some more of it out with a disgusted look on his face.

 

~§~

 

D'Artagnan had seen Aramis tend to wounds enough times that he knew, in theory, what needed to be done. There was, however, an ocean of doubt between seeing others do and doing.

 

Getting the older man out of his doublet had been the easy part, as Athos’ consciousness seemed to come and go like the breeze.

 

There was more blood underneath the leather than what the young man had expected, the dark red liquid oozing out still, even as he looked.

 

Remembering Aramis' usual method of checking a wound, d'Artagnan reached around Athos' torso, feeling for the place where, if they were lucky, the exit wound should be. His fingers immediately felt tacky, sticking to each other as he found the second injury.

 

A small degree of relief filled the young man, fearful as he had been that he would be forced to dig around his mentor's chest in search of a lost musket ball. Of course, if that had been the case, the Gascon reminded himself, it wouldn't be him doing such an atrocious deed, because Aramis _would_ be back by then and he was the one with the experience and steady hand for such matters.

 

Besides, there was no need to pull musket balls out of anyone because the shot had passed clean through and that...that d'Artagnan could deal with, even if, in the privacy of his own mind, he was frantically panicking.

 

Aramis.

 

Hearing Athos' breathless warning about the marksman had left d'Artagnan unbalanced and uncertain of what to do. He had barely started to deal with the fact that Athos was badly hurt; those few whispered words had been simply too much to bear, throwing his heart into a spiral of despair that robbed him of all thought. Aramis could be dead already and Athos, if left unattended, could quickly follow.

 

When d'Artagnan had started off that day, he could never have imagined that, in a matter of minutes, he would stand so close to lose two of his brothers. Porthos, bless his gentle soul and brave heart, had been the one to surge into action and take command.

 

The decision to choose who stayed and who searched the river for their missing friend had been an easy one; while both of them could somewhat swim, only Porthos possessed the strength to pull Aramis from the river, if the need arose. That left d'Artagnan with the equally important task of keeping Athos alive.

 

“Enough with the poking,” Athos hissed in pain, once more master of his senses. “Where are the others?” he whispered, eyes darting around feverishly. “Did... did you find him?”

 

There was no need to ask about whom Athos was inquiring. He looked back at the slope that hid the river from sight, hoping that this was the one time he would see a twin set of dark, curly haired heads making their way up. No such luck.

 

They were taking an awful long time to return… D'Artagnan was unsure if that was a good or a very bad sign. “I’m certain Porthos and Aramis will be here shortly,” he voiced, not sounding nearly as convincing as he had aimed for.

 

“Y-you should go…help them,” Athos whispered, trying to curl onto his side as the young man applied more pressure over the wounds on his right side. “I’ll be fine.”

 

If not for the blood covering his hands, d’Artagnan might have laughed at the older man’s words. Pity Athos could not see his own face, pale and sweaty as it was, eyes sunken, like his body was trying to consume them…the swordsman would have found the statement amusing as well, he was sure.

 

“Porthos would kill me if I were to abandon you here,” the Gascon replied with a genuine smile. “And Aramis would patch me up well enough just to kill me next.”

 

Athos sagged back against the tree, realizing that he would be – quite literally -- wasting his breath trying to convince d’Artagnan to move. “The attackers?” he asked instead.

 

“All dead,” the Gascon said all-too-quickly, not a trace of pity in his voice. The attack had been too similar to the one that had robbed him of his father and, looking at Athos’ pained features, the young man could not find in his heart the will to think kindly of the men they had killed. “Or close to it,” he added, as a moan that had not come from the wounded Musketeer filled the silence.

 

D’Artagnan stilled his movements as Athos’ hands covered his. “This was no ra-random attack,” the older man said, his intense eyes trying to voice everything that he lacked the breath to say. The explosion, the way they sought to divide the four of them, the ferocity of the attack and their targeting of Athos in particular…it all spoke of a planned attack, one ordered by someone else other than the dead men. “Find out what he knows,” Athos ordered, knowing that dead men did not moan. There was still one attacker alive.

 

 


	5. The job

D’Artagnan's first instinct was to say no. There was no way he was going to leave his injured brother to question some outlaw. He opened his mouth, quite ready to argue against Athos' order, when he saw the logic behind what the older Musketeer was asking. If these men had been sent to kill them or were a part of some bigger plan to attack the royal couple, others would come to as soon as it became obvious that they had failed.

 

As much as it pained him, d'Artagnan knew that his first duty as a Musketeer was to the King of France, to make sure that His Majesty's life was not in danger and warn Treville of the dangerous condition of that road. With Athos' hurt and with no idea about Aramis' condition, d'Artagnan and Porthos could not afford to spend the rest of the way home looking over their shoulders, afraid of stepping forward, not knowing from where the next blow would come. They needed to figure out exactly what they were dealing with and assure they save return.

 

“Hold this,” d'Artagnan instructed the barely-conscious man, placing his hands over the rag that he was using to help stop the flow of blood . “And on your honor…do not let go!”

 

Athos gave him the barest of nods, silently urging him to find out all that he could from the remaining assailant.

 

D’Artagnan followed the moaning sound, quickly coming across its source. The man was younger than him, a boy really. His hands, red from his own blood, were pressed against his belly, thick liquid and gore slipping between his fingers. From the looks of it, not even Aramis’ experienced hands would have been able to do anything for such an injury.

 

“Who sent you?” d'Artagnan asked, wasting no time. “What was your purpose here?”

 

There was nothing but pain and anger in the young man's eyes as he forced himself to focus on world of the living when he had been, clearly, already halfway through to the world of the dead.

 

“Answer me!” the Gascon insisted, grabbing the wounded man by the front of his blood-soaked jacket. “You attacked us without provocation, in the most cowardly manner. Answer me and lessen some of your shame and dishonor.”

  
The other man let out a maniacal laugh, his teeth covered in blood. “T'was just a job... done far worse fer-fer far less, if ya're curious...”

 

“What job? Why us? Why now?”

 

The other jerked, sucking in a breath that seemed unwilling to reach his lungs. “Don't know...” he coughed. “Don't care...”

 

D'Artagnan's eyes grew darker, filled with purpose. This was taking too much time and he was gaining absolutely nothing. “You've been shot in the gut,” he said matter-of-factly, eyeing the ugly wound with cold detachment. “Wound like that is always deadly...seen it before,” he went on, watching as the challenging look escaped the other man's eyes, replaced by naked fear. “Took the man a whole of two days before he died, last time I saw it. Writhing in agony, choking in his own spit and vomit...and that was after we gave him something to numb the pain.”

 

The young man started to shake uncontrollably, his face losing what little color it had left. D'Artagnan clamped down on his emotions, refusing to feel even a small degree of pity for the poor soul. “Tell me what I want to know,” he went on, “and I promise to ease your passing. Keep your silence, and I walk away.”

 

Veering on the edge of unconsciousness as he was, it seemed like the young man still had his wits about him, at least enough to know that he did not wanted to spend his final time on Earth in all-consuming, never ending agony.

 

“They ne-never told me who paid fer it,” he rushed to say, the breath catching inside his chest. “Just...just tha' we're supposed to kill 'im,” he confessed, his head nodding in Athos' direction. “The rest of ya were just fer-fer fun.”

 

D'Artagnan resisted the urge to put his fist through the man's face, furious that someone would wish to harm their honorable leader. “Athos? Why him?”

 

The confused look that took hold of the dying man was all too genuine to be anything else but the thruth. “Athos? No...we were told t' kill the Musketeer with t' blue s-sash,” he said, his eyes beginning to roll inside his head. “Aramis...we ca-came here t-to kill...Ara--”

 

D'Artagnan pushed back in haste, his boots tangling on the grass before he lost his balance and landed on his ass. The villain never saw the Gascon's ungraceful fall, for he was too busy taking his last, shuddering breath.

 

Aramis!

 

The implications of what he had just learned were too grim to absorb, too vast to comprehend. One thing, however, the young Musketeer understood immediately.

 

Athos had been wounded because the attackers had mistaken him for Aramis, merely because the marksman had loaned his sash to the older man. The level of guilt the marksman would feel were he ever to discover the truth...

 

“You lied to him,” Athos whispered as soon as d'Artagnan was back at his side. 

 

The young man gave him a confused look, before kneeling down to fold his hands over Athos', adding more pressure to the wound.

 

“About how long... it would take him to die,” the swordsman explained, closing his eyes in pain. “Guess he didn't...didn't know the difference be-between a gunshot and a sword w-wound.”

 

D'Artagnan closed his eyes, wishing not for the first time, that they had stayed in Paris and simply celebrated Aramis' birthday like Porthos wanted. “You heard all of that then?”

 

Athos nodded. When he opened his eyes, the blue gaze was clear and commanding. “He must never know,” he ordered, not needing to say of whom he spoke. “If...if I do not survive...he can never know, d'Artagnan,” Athos pleaded. “The guilt wo-would be the end of him.”

 

The young man bit his lip. “Athos...he needs to know.” Somewhere out there, there was someone who wanted their brother dead and until they could find out who that was, no amount of caution could go to waste. “How can he protect himself if h-”

 

“We'll protect...him,” Athos pointed out. His voice sounded so weak that it was a wonder he was still talking at all, much less vowing to protect anyone. 

 

The sound of approaching feet startled them both, locked in a stare as they were. D'Artagnan's hand flew to his weapon, ready to defend his wounded companion unto his last breath, until his eyes landed on the welcome sight of Porthos and Aramis walking towards them. He breathed out in relief.

 

“D'Artagnan...” Athos urged, before the others could be close enough to hear them. “Your word.”

 

D'Artagnan nodded, reluctantly. “Until you're on your feet,” he compromised. “Then we must tell.”

 

“Tell what?” Porthos asked, holding Aramis' arm as he kneeled beside Athos.

 

Now that they stood close and d'Artagnan's attention focused on their missing friends, he could see that Aramis didn't look all too well. His clothing clang to his body in sogginess, and his hair hung limply against his face, both expected conditions after a forced swim in the river. The sunken eyes and shortness of breath, however, were worrying. “Are you alright?”

 

“Fine,” the marksman answered, stifling a cough. “Just wet and miserable,” he added, pushing d'Artagnan's hands away to look at Athos' injury.

 

Porthos' eyes met his over Aramis' bent shape, warning him to drop the matter for the time being. “How's Athos?”

 

“Still able to spe-speak for himself,” the older man replied, his shortness of breath nearly undoing his words. “We should get out of here...make for the monastery.”

 

~§~

 

Aramis was barely listening to his friends' conversation. The walk from where Porthos had found him to where they had left Athos and d'Artagnan had all but exhausted him, his lungs complaining at the exertion and making each breath a struggle.

 

Despite his efforts to get rid of as much river water as he could, Aramis could still feel it inside his chest, soaking his very core, weighing him down and threatening to drown him even on dry land.

 

His attention, however, was on Athos. D'Artagnan had done a good job of slowing the blood loss, but the wound was still oozing and would keep on doing so until someone put a stop to it.

 

The ball had entered through the back, a cowardly shot that had left an ugly exit wound three fingers below Athos' right nipple. It was too high to have hit his liver, but not low enough to have missed his lung... “How's your breathing, my friend?” he asked, trying to hide the worry from his voice. If the ball had nicked Athos' lung, then all would be lost.

 

The older man opened one eye with some effort, using it to give him a pointed look. “At the moment,” he whispered, “sounding better than yours.”

 

Aramis had to smile. He had a point, after all. Of the two of them, his breathing was the one he could hear the most, raspy and noisy. “Fair enough,” he said, replacing the pack of cloth d'Artagnan had placed on the wound. “Porthos and I saw the horses, near the river, a few feet from here,” he went on, pausing to casually catch his breath. “We'll need them, and the supplies on my saddle,” he added, glancing up at the two standing Musketeers.

 

The wound needed to be properly cleaned and bandaged before they could even think of getting Athos anywhere near a horse. Once they reached the monastery, Aramis was sure that he could relay Athos' treatment to one of the monks there, more well-versed in medicine and the art of stitching the human body than he would ever be.

 

“I'll fetch them,” d'Artagnan offered, already poised to leave.

 

“Then I'll be searchin' this sorry lot,” Porthos said, his eyes filled with barely contained anger. “Maybe we'll get lucky and find som' answers, eh?”

 

Athos raised his eyes in alarm at Porthos' words, looking up. Aramis followed his gaze, only to find an equally alarmed expression on d'Artagnan's face. “What's wrong? What are you two not telling us?”

 

“D'Artagnan talked to one of them,” Athos replied, his initial reaction carefully hidden from view.

 

“And? Wha' did he say? Wha' was all this about?”

 

Athos opened his mouth to reply, but only a gasp escaped his lips, as his body spasmed and he tried to curl into himself instead.

 

“Easy now,” Aramis whispered, feeling useless as there was nothing he could do for his friend other than rub his arm in comfort and hope that the painful spasm passed soon. “D'Artagnan?”

 

The young man startled at hearing his name, for a minute seemingly lost over what Aramis was asking of him. “Right...the horses,” he finally said, beating a hasty retreat.

 

“Tha' was weird,” Porthos let out, watching the young man hurrying away. “Got your breath back?”

 

For a second, Aramis failed to understand whom was Porthos talking to, his chest contracting in sympathy with Athos' pained gasps, making him just as breathless as the injured man. “Go,” he voiced faintly, pointing to the dead men lying across the field. If Porthos wanted any answers from them, he'd have to get them before d'Artagnan arrived with the horses, because after that they would have no time to lose. “I'll stay with him.”

 

“Just ro-robbers,” Athos whispered, his back straining to regain some measure of posture. “Nothing but robbers.”

 

Aramis raised an eyebrow, confused. “Who...what were they trying to rob? Us?”

 

It made little sense. They were clearly soldiers, not noblemen. What would a group that large have to gain from stealing from them, other than a few used weapons and four horses?

 

“They saw us...back at Rouen,” the swordsman went on. “Thought we carried some treasure...from the Duke.”

 

Aramis gave him a look, not quite believing that story. Even if he considered Athos' wound a lucky shot -which had, most definitely, not been the case- the attack had been too well-orchestrated and filled with dark purpose... “Fool’s gold, hm?” he said, forcing a smile onto his lips. Now was not the time to contest his friend's words or worry about the reasons behind his spotty story. Or the reasons why Athos had chosen to lie.

 

~§~

 

“Nothin',” Porthos announced after a while, returning to his friends' side. D'Artagnan was already repacking Aramis' supplies, getting all ready for their departure. “Some pocket coins and plenty of lint,” he offered, looking frustrated at the lack of information. “Found their camp, though...t' bastards been here fer a couple of days, waiting fer us.”

 

Aramis looked at Athos with an odd expression in his eyes. “Athos and d'Artagnan claim that they were thieves, following us all the way from Rouen,” he said, testing the words in his mouth. Of course, they _could_ be robbers, and even possess some sort of base outside the city, praying on those coming and going there for business. But the thing was, these had been waiting for them at a time when no one was suppose to know that the Duke was going to receive any visitors. And why attack them as they moved in the wrong direction? After all, if they had been carrying something of value meant for the King, they would have not been traveling towards the coast, but rather south, to Paris.

 

It was clear that the marksman did not believe that theory one bit. Porthos too was at a loss as to why the others would have even gone through the trouble of relaying what was obviously a lie. “Who told ya that?”

 

“One of them was still alive...after,” Athos explained.

 

“Well, don't know 'bout that,” Porthos declared. “They had provisions in there for at least a week...they were definitely waitin' fer someone.”

 

“Clearly…” 

 

Athos’ attempt at shrugging was cut short by Aramis' hands on his shoulders, keeping him still. “Mind your wound,” he warned. “No moving around until I get a chance of putting some stitches in there.”

 

“Ready to go?” the Gascon asked, flinging the reins over three of the horses' heads and looping them around the saddle's pommel. “Who rides with Athos?” he pondered out loud, leading the swordsman's black steed with a gentle hand on the animal's neck.

 

“ _Athos..._ is riding alone,” the older man offered, sounding mildly offended that they would even consider anything else. The very telling moment in which Athos tried to move on his own and quickly gave up, was much more convincing than any words out of his mouth.

 

“I will,” Porthos said, easily ignoring their leader's scolding gaze. “Ya can barely hold yerself straight...I ain't going t' risk ya falling from yer horse just because yer stubborn as a mule.”

 

“I agree,” Aramis pitched in, standing on Athos’ other side, ready to hoist him to his feet with Porthos' aid.

 

“Do I get any say in the matter?” their leader voiced, gazing at them both. Were it not for the paleness of his features and the way he could barely keep his eyes open long enough to scowl, it would have been funny.

 

“No,” the two Musketeers said as one. 

 

“And ya'll be riding with d'Artagnan,” Porthos went on, redirecting his gaze to the marksman.

 

Aramis frowned, then smiled tentatively, thinking that the large man was joking. “What for?”

 

Porthos gave him a hard, incredulous look. Had he truly forgotten that, less than an hour before, he had drowned? Or did he really think that his shortness of breath and the number of times he was forced to rest a hand against the ground to regain his balance was passing unnoticed? “Indulge me,” the big man simply offered, knowing full well that Aramis would not want the details of what he'd been through shared in front of Athos. Not right now, not when they were racing to save the older man's life.

 

There was a long argument against Porthos suggestion -command- in Aramis' stormy eyes, but one that he, very wisely, chose to leave unspoken. “Very well...let us waste no more time, then.”

 

 


	6. Carnage

 

Treville looked up from the papers he had been discussing with the King as the doors to the private office were pushed open with purpose. Richelieu, dark robes flowing around him like a murder of crows, devoured the distance between the door and the monarch in wide steps, hard wood heels booming against the marble floor with each step. In the Cardinal's hand there was a piece of parchment, which he held in front of him like a white flag.

 

“Word has arrived from Mont St. Michel,” he announced. “All is ready to receive Your Majesties, but we must depart at once.”

 

The Captain of the Musketeers frowned. “Why?” he enquired, not waiting for the King's reaction. There was something about Richelieu's _enthusiasm_ at the news that didn't quite agreed with Treville's stomach.

 

“Matters of the Church,” the First Minister supplied, pompously, as he always did when he played the religion card. “Today marks the beginning of the Holy week, which means,” he added, throwing a condescending look in Treville's direction, “that Pentecost Sunday is a week away. Barely enough time to reach the monastery in time for the Holy blessing.”

 

“My men have yet to return with their report, Your Majesty,” Treville reminded the King. “It is not safe --”

 

“Nonsense,” the King interjected. “Have you not listened to the Cardinal? We must make haste, or lose the chance to bless the Dauphin with a long and prosperous life,” Louis declared, all but ending the discussion. “I shall inform the Queen that we shall leave tomorrow, in the morning,” he went on, rising from his chair.

 

Treville bowed low, effectively hiding the frustration clear in his features. In his mind, he was already planning how many men to deploy to prevent this whole situation from becoming an even greater mess.

 

“Just...” the King voiced at the door, “...not dreadfully early...”

 

~§~

 

“What was that all about?” D'Artagnan asked as soon as Aramis was seated in front of him. The marksman seemed well enough, if a bit shaky and damp.

 

“'tis mostly a zoology problem,” Aramis explained, wiggling in the unfamiliar saddle until he could find a more comfortable position. “Porthos mistakenly thinks himself a mother bear...and we, unfortunately, seemed to have been relegated to the role of his feeble cubs.”

 

“I heard tha'!”

 

“Good...one must always be alert to signs of old age,” Aramis replied without missing a beat. “Hearing is the first one t-”

 

The rest of the jape was lost in a coughing fit that seemed to rock his whole body, and d'Artagnan's along with him.

 

“I can't help but see his point,” the young man offered once Aramis had settled in front of him. “What happened at the river? Neither of you said a word...”

 

Sitting in front of him, the only thing d'Artagnan could see of the older man was his shoulder and curly hair. His hat, it would seem, had suffered the same fate as Athos'. The close proximity, however, offered a reasonable replacement for the inability to see Aramis' expression. Sitting as they were, d'Artagnan could feel it every time the older man tensed when confronted with a subject matter that he would rather not discuss. Like he was currently doing.

 

“Fell into the river,” Aramis replied, trying to make those four words the beginning and the end of the whole story. “It was, surprisingly enough, wet, hence the soggy condition of my garments. Not much else to tell, is there?”

 

“And you managed to get out all by yourself?” The dismay in his voice was not born out of a lack of trust in Aramis’ abilities. D’Artagnan had seen how turbulent those waters were, a challenge even to the most proficient of swimmers. Having grown up on a farm and being used to frolicking in rivers all of his life, d’Artagnan was almost certain that not even he would have been able to withstand such a treacherous current.

 

Aramis’ silence spoke volumes about what had really happened. “You didn’t, did you?” D’Artagnan ventured. The stiffening of the man’s shoulders told him how accurate his guess had been. “So, how did yo…?”

 

“Luck was on my side,” Aramis surmised, his tone quietly stating that he did not wish to speak further on the matter. 

 

D’Artagnan bit his lip, not wanting to pry even as his heart raced with the knowledge of how close they had come to losing two brothers that day. Athos’ condition was still undetermined and from the marksman clipped answers, it was easy to guess that Fate alone had prevented his death in that river. It seemed almost impossible to believe that only a few hours before they had been laughing and teasing each other.

 

“Why are you and Athos lying about the men who attacked us?”

 

Aramis’ question held such a mixture of candor and abruptness that d’Artagnan could not completely cover his surprise. “Wh—no, we’re not,” he stuttered, his voice lacking the proper conviction to sell his words.

 

It irked the young Gascon to no end that, among the four of them, he was the most terrible liar, a fact that the others never ceased to tease him about.

 

“Is that so?” the marksman probed, turning his head as far as he could to send a look towards d'Artagnan. “So you agree with Athos’ theory, do you?”

 

D'Artagnan resisted the urge to bite his lip again. When he had rejoined them, after fetching the horses, Athos and Aramis had already been discussing the attackers and their intentions. The young man had no idea what else Athos might have said.

 

“That they were a part of some rebel fraction, wanting to spite the King by killing His personal soldiers,” Aramis offered. 

 

D'Artagnan almost sighed in relief as the older man provided the answer to his own question. “Yes...it would seem like that. Didn't Porthos say that they had a camp nearby? Maybe they thought we were carrying some letters or other important papers...”

 

Aramis was silent for a moment, his shoulders tensing at d'Artagnan's words. Though puzzled by the marksman's reaction, the young man had no time to ask the reason behind it as their destination loomed in sight.

 

“We're here,” Porthos, slightly ahead, announced. “Looks kind of surly,” he added curling his lip in distaste.

 

D'Artagnan had to agree with him. Even at the distance, the lonely castle on top of the hill had a devastated look about it, looming over the horizon like a set of sharp edged teeth, trying to gnaw at the sky.

 

“Wasn't there supposed to be an Order of monks looking after the place?” the young man enquired. He could see no smoke from the castle's many chimneys and there seemed to be no one on the grounds surrounding it.

 

“I s'ppose,” Porthos agreed, adjusting his grip on Athos. The older man's eyes were closed, either resting or having lost his grip on his senses at some point. “We should hurry.”  
  
“I agree,” Aramis voiced, looking at the body of water that surrounded the hill on all sides but one before looking back towards Athos' still form. “The tide will be rising soon and we won’t be able to ride the horses across once the water cuts off the path.”

 

It was clear from the tone of his voice that the marksman was more than a little concerned about the musket wound, not wishing to delay tending to it any longer than what they already had.

 

“Damn stupid place to put a monastery, if ya ask me...” Porthos muttered, spurring his horse into motion.

 

~§~

 

D'Artagnan had lied.

 

Aramis had not been overly fond of tricking his friend as he had, but the notion that he and Athos were hiding something set his teeth on edge.

 

For someone who was hiding from two of his closest friends the fact that he had slept with the Queen and was about to become a father to the bastard heir to throne of France, Aramis could very easily see the hypocrisy of his feelings of betrayal over being lied to. As it was with the lies he told, the marksman could think of only one reason why Athos and d'Artagnan would chose to lie about the information they had managed to gather from the deceased outlaw. They were protecting him and Porthos from...something.

 

The smell hit them first, distracting Aramis from any additional thought.

 

Under the none-too-gentle sun, the scent of rotten blood and festering flesh had taken over everything else. Rather than empty and abandoned as it had seemed from afar, they could now see that the castle was, indeed, filled with people.

 

Dead people.

 

There were bodies scattered everywhere they looked, an utter chaos of destruction and death.

 

“Good God…” Aramis whispered, his hand flying to his mouth, both in horror and to prevent the smell from further assaulting his senses. “What happened here?”

 

D’Artagnan was the first to dismount, nimble legs easily carrying him towards the nearest corpse, that of a monk, lying on his back. He pushed the body over, revealing the ugly sword wound that had slashed the rotund man’s spine and effectively ended his life. “Killed from behind, probably while running for his life,” the Gascon concluded, his tone clearly showing his distaste for such a cowardly action. “No weapon on him… on any of them.”

 

“A slaughter,” Athos concluded, bleary eyes taking in their surroundings. “We cannot stay here.” 

 

Aramis was already shaking his head before anyone could agree with their leader. “Your wound needs urgent tending,” he reminded as he carefully exchanged the back of the horse for the ground. His legs were trembling, like a new-born colt’s. “Whatever happened here, there is nothing we can do other than pray for their souls. It is their medical supplies that we are in desperate need of, not their company.”

 

“Whoever was responsible for this might return at any moment,” Athos countered, stubborn to a fault. “If they have left at all. We are in no condition to fend off an attack should it come to that.”

 

The marksman exchanged a look with Porthos, finding in his eyes the same suspicions. Even injured as he was, they knew that the older man’s mind was still sharp enough to see the same things as they did.

 

The bodies looked to be at least three days old, decay more than well set-in. The people responsible for such a massacre were long-gone and they had no reason to suspect that they would be returning unless given reason to believe otherwise. Which Athos seemed to have, even if he refused to share it.

 

Again with the lies.

 

“Your wound needs tending. Now,” Aramis repeated, leaving no room for question. “ _If_ they choose to return, we will deal with the matter then…unless there’s some other reason you see here to force us to leave?”

 

There was no mistaking the frantic look that d’Artagnan threw in Athos’ direction, even if the other man was too distracted and in pain to notice.  _For the love of all that was sacred_ … Aramis was going to beat the truth out of those two, right after he was sure that Athos’ wound would not fester and claim his life.

 

“This way,” he called out, leading the other three towards one of the broken doors. Aramis had visited the monastery once, nearly ten years before, on his way to the battle front against the Huguenots. At the time, the place had been more of a fortress than a house of worship, but he still remembered with awe the beautiful glasswork that decorated the cathedral’s high walls.

 

At the time, the monastery had been the last remnant of peace that Aramis had been graced with before facing the horrors of war. Now, the same place filled him with nothing more than ghosts and regret.

~§~

 

Assisted on each side by Porthos and d’Artagnan, Athos made his way slowly, following the marksman’s footsteps. Inside the monastery’s walls, the carnage was less than outside, but still very much present at almost every turn. It did not look like anyone had escaped alive or even lived long enough to tell the tale. Even the dogs and livestock had met their bloody ends at the hands of the murderers.

 

In his mind, Athos could not help but look for a connection between the current condition of the monastery and the attack they had suffered earlier. He was sure there had to be one, for coincidences were something best left for children's stories, but the swordsman could not imagine anyone capable of ordering the massacre of an entire religious order just to extract his revenge from Aramis. An attack on the road could easily be faulted to a simple cheated husband, seeking revenge over a treacherous wife; to order the end of such a large number of Church men suggested the workings of a bigger power, one that wanted Aramis dead.

 

He could, of course, tell Aramis the truth about the attack and explain why they were taking an unimaginable risk by remaining in that place. However, if he knew the stubborn man well – and he did -- Athos had no doubts that Aramis would insist on remaining all the same, at least until he was satisfied that the swordsman would not die.

 

Trying to get his mind away from the vicious pain that assaulted his chest with every breath and step he was forced to take, Athos turned his thoughts instead to trying to figure out who stood to gain from the marksman’s death.

 

As much as he wanted to lay the guilt on cuckolded husbands or distraught fathers and brothers, defending their daughters and sisters' honor, Athos was forced to admit that for the past few months, Aramis had been behaving very much like the men who used to live in that monastery. Chaste and blind to the appeal of the fairer sex.

 

In fact, Athos was almost certain that the younger man had not taken a single lover since he'd bedded the Queen, which in itself was blatantly indicative that not all was well with his friend.

 

Athos stared at the face of a murdered monk, his eyes covered with a white film and his mouth hanging open, in a silent scream that took him across the veil.

 

There was only one jealous husband with the power to do something of this magnitude. But would the King been able to order the deaths of all those men just to keep the murder of a lowly Musketeer a secret?

 

The action seemed over-the-top and futile. Louis was the King of France; if charged with treason, Aramis would be executed in public – and they alongside him - without any need for secrecy and twisted plots.

 

Besides, twisted plots were not the King’s style and favorite fashion.

 

And what of the child? The very future of France was at stake with the birth of an heir when the house of Bourbon had none. Would Louis risk civil war even if he knew that the child was not his?

 

The idea that all of this was somehow related to Aramis’ indiscretion with the Queen, and the child that had resulted, took root inside Athos’ mind and refused to be dismissed.

 

But, if not Louis, then who?

 

“Use one of those beds,” Aramis ordered before disappearing through a side door. “And see if you can boil some water!” he called out, voice muffled by distance.

 

Athos blinked, having lost track of exactly when they had reached their destination. The room was spacious, with high windows that allowed generous beams of sunlight to bathe the stone walls, turning the harsh granite rock into more welcoming tones. Ironically enough, for all the death that permeated the rest of the monastery, it did not seem to have touched this particular room, the one room the sick sought to fend off Death. Not one, it would seem, had had the opportunity to reach it for help.

 

Considering all the dead outside, Athos felt unworthy of the bed he was currently occupying. “We must send word to Treville,” he whispered as soon as Porthos moved far enough away that his words could not reach him. “Tell him to stop the King from coming and send reinforcements.”

 

“You believe those men were not alone?” d'Artagnan whispered back, keeping an eye on the other two. Aramis had yet to return and Porthos was poking at the beginnings of a small fire. “That they will follow us here to...”

 

Athos’ eyes flashed a warning, but it was already too late.

 

“Follow us here t' do what?” Porthos’ deep voice sounded a lot closer than it should have been. 

 

For such a big man, the experienced Musketeer could move more silently than a cat when he wished to, a trait that was most unwelcome at this particular junction.

 

Athos looked at the bigger man, stubbornly hoping that his stare would be enough to stop Porthos from pressing the matter. It was a skill that his father had, quite against Athos' will, ingrained into his personality and one that almost never failed to bend other people to concede his point. The ' _Stare_ ' - not to be confused with Aramis' ' _Look_ ' - was, unfortunately, complete and utter rubbish when used on either of his three brothers.

 

Porthos breezed past _The Stare_ and frowned, showing how unimpressed he was at the continuous charade and Athos’ feeble attempts to hide his pointless ruse.

 

“To finish what they started,” d'Artagnan cut in, effectively ending the silent conversation going back and forth between the two men.

 

“Those men,” Porthos started, thoughtfully, his eyes darting towards the door. “It's Aramis they were after, ain't it?”

 

Athos nodded. There was no point in denying what the cunning Musketeer had already been able to surmise for himself. When it came to his brothers, Porthos was uncanny in his perceptiveness.

 

It was a wonder that, thus far, he had not connected the dots between Aramis and the Queen the same way he seemed to be able to do with everything else. Perhaps because the situation was so far outside the realm of reality, the possibility had never even entered their friend's mind.

 

“Who? Why?” Porthos predictably asked. “Is this som' husband whose wife Aramis took to his bed...or a villain he put in the Chatelêt...wha'?”

 

For a moment, Athos wished it was his secret to share, that he could inform Porthos and d'Artagnan about his theory and his fears that this was only the beginning; that they would not be enough to protect Aramis from what was to come.

 

But it was not, so he could not.

 

“We have no way of knowing for certain,” Athos finally confessed, getting as close to the truth as he dared. “Even the men who attacked us had no idea about who had ordered it in the first place.”

 

“They only had Aramis' description to go by,” d'Artagnan added, his eyes dropping guiltily to the blue sash, currently wrapped around Athos' wounded chest.

 

“Aramis and Athos look nothin' alike,” Porthos pointed out. “I mean, yeah, ya look a smidge more like 'im than I do, but --”

 

Athos could see the connection being made in Porthos' mind as his eyes followed d'Artagnan's gaze and landed on the bloody piece of blue fabric.

 

“\--t' sash,” Porthos whispered, his eyes filling with sadness.

 

“Do you see now?” Athos pressed, sensing that they would not be alone for much longer. “Do you understand our need for secrecy?”

 

The big man nodded heavily. Like them, he disliked the idea of lying to Aramis, but the option was too painful to give it any consideration.

 

* * *

Mont Saint-Michel IS a real place, in Normandy, France. And, as you can see, absolutely breath-taking!

 

 


	7. Hashashin

~§~

 

“What's taking him so long?” d'Artagnan asked, rising to his feet. He had been keeping an eye on the door, not wanting to be caught unawares a second time, waiting for any sign of Aramis' return. The marksman, wherever he was, the distance was far to great for them to hear him.

 

As if the possibility had been whispered into their ears at the exact same time, all three suddenly looked around in alarm, as the idea that they might not be as alone as they had presumed, grew and took hold.

 

They knew that there was someone out there, someone with vast resources, who wanted Aramis dead. Someone who had possessed no qualms in sending a group of murders to hunt them all down. How could they have been foolish enough to allow Aramis to wander about _alone_ and unprotected in a place so utterly filled with death?

 

“I'll go look for him,” the young Gascon offered, hurrying out of the room before the others could contest his decision.

 

His conscience would not let him rest. d'Artagnan absolutely hated this web of deceit and lies he found himself in, unable to disclose to the marksman that his life was in danger, unable to tell the truth due to his promise to Athos. The only point of grace in the whole matter was their unvoiced and sworn vow to keep Aramis safe and sound, a vow made the minute they had become companions and brothers.

 

Still, the situation left him fidgety and restless, eager to do something tangible to help Aramis.

 

But how could they protect him if they allowed the marksman so far from their view? With his mind preoccupied with Athos' wound and tending to it, Aramis would be easy prey should any of the men responsible for the massacre had stayed behind.

 

D'Artagnan swallowed hard, forcing himself to look at every one of the bodies he found on his way, praying breathlessly for all the faces to remain those of strangers, for his eyes to be met only with dark robes, rather than Aramis' leathers. And that too carried no small amount of guilt within his heart, for surely these men also had families and loved one, people who had no idea they should be in mourning.

 

Walking aimlessly, d'Artagnan soon found himself in a large courtyard where a single olive tree, looking as ancient as the world itself, took centerfold. The cloisters surrounding it went up as far as the eye could see, double columns sustaining them, giving the place a feeling of enclosure and weight. Like an open tomb.

 

Taking a step into the shadowy space, d'Artagnan shivered as he caught the sight of two monks, hanging upside down from the branches of the tree, one of them stripped of his clothing with no respect or regard for his vocation.

 

The young man's attention was pulled away from the gruesome sight as he caught a wisp of movement on the other side of the cloisters. There was someone there, leaning against one of the columns, almost hidden from view. His heart started to race wildly, certain that it could only be one of the monsters responsible for such bloodshed, hiding in the shadows, thirsty for more blood.

 

Unsheathing his sword, d'Artagnan advanced fearlessly, carefully, quietly. Closer up, he could hear the labored breaths and soft moans. The satisfaction he felt at believing his opponent to be wounded and suffering a measure of all the pain he had inflicted was quickly replaced with shame as d'Artagnan recognized the blue cloak draped over the man's back. “Aramis?”

 

The marksman startled, dropping a basket to the floor. From it rolled a few white strips of linen and a glass bottle.

 

“Good Lord, d'Artagnan!” the other man voiced, sounding out of breath. “You've trying to kill me of pure fright?” he added with a forced laugh.

 

It was a show of playfulness that fooled no one. “What's wrong with you? Are you ill?” the young man asked, putting his sword away and bending down to retrieve the items that had scattered across the dirty floor. Some of the linens were now useless, having soaked up the blood that seemed to coat every surface of the monastery. “Were you attacked?”

 

“Only the dead have been left behind, my young friend,” Aramis said sorrowfully. “And if _those_ rose to do anything at all, we would be in much more serious trouble than a mere attack on my person,” he added with a forced smile.

 

D'Artagnan had grown quite familiar with the panoply of Aramis' smiles, of how the marksman was an expert in using them to disarm others, to distract and confuse both his friends as well as his opponents. “So, you  _are_ ill then,” the young man concluded, for once not falling for the deceit.

 

Aramis twisted his nose, using one hand to pull his wet hair back while the other grabbed for the second basket he had placed on top of the wall. “I am emotional,” he let out. “This many lives, lost...I merely lost my balance and needed a moment to compose myself before I joined you. Nothing more.”

 

D'Artagnan gazed upon his friend, taking notice of the pallor of his skin and the redness surrounding his eyes. He listened for the labored breath he had heard upon approaching, ready to confront him on his lie, but the sound was no longer there. Maybe, like the marksman, the place was affecting him more than he realized, making him hear gasps and moans where there were none.

 

“We should join the others,” he suggested, conceding the point. “Allow me to help with...” d'Artagnan started, only to pause as he look at the contents of the baskets. “What are all of these?”

 

“The monastery kept a very well-stocked apothecary and various medicinal supplies and instruments,” Aramis explained, picking yet another bag from the floor. “I'm afraid I have raided their entire inventory in my eagerness and ignorance...we never know what we'll need...”

 

D'Artagnan nodded, understanding the sentiment deep inside his heart. He had yet to be able to shake the feeling of powerlessness that had consumed him when faced with Athos' wound. He could only imagine how much harder it must be for Aramis, knowing that he would have to be the one to deal with that, without the support of a proper physician.

 

“Athos is lucky to have you by his side,” the Gascon reminded his friend. “And Porthos and I will be right by yours, aiding in any way we can.”

 

The gratitude and compassion that filled the marksman's deep, dark eyes was nearly overwhelming. It made d'Artagnan once again wonder at what could possibly be the reason behind Aramis’ surprised reaction every time one of them professed their confidence and reliance on his skills.

 

~§~

 

Porthos was about ready to start tearing down walls in despair when d'Artagnan and Aramis returned. “'bout bloody time! Where t' hell have ya two been?”

 

While d'Artagnan flinched at his words, Aramis barely paid any mind, being well acquainted with the big man's peculiar and overwhelming sense of worry. “How fares he?” he asked instead, setting a basket and a leather bag on the floor.

 

“He was fine a few minutes ago, then just got quiet and lookin' like tha',” the big man supplied, wringing the hands in his lap.

 

Looking like _'that_ ' was a very short and rather innocuous way of not saying ' _like death warmed over_ ', because such was an apt description of Athos' countenance. His face was pasty and sweat covered the majority of his cheeks and chest. Beneath it, they could all see the goosebumps peppering his skin.

 

Aramis ran a tired hand over his face, his fingers trembling ever-so-slightly. “Is the water boiling?” he asked, his voice much steadier than he looked.

 

At Porthos’ nod, the marksman started fumbling through the numerous materials he and d'Artagnan had brought back. “I need that shirt off and him lying on his stomach,” he commanded with a certainty that came from having his words heard and obeyed countless times before. “Find a hard surface, some place I can work freely.”

 

Porthos didn't need to be told twice. There was a table set against the far wall that would suit their purposes quite well. Rather than working out the mechanics of lifting Athos and carrying him over to the table, the big man simply hefted the heavy wooden furniture and carried it closer to the bed where they had placed the swordsman.

 

D'Artagnan, seeing that Porthos had that part well-in-hand, moved to the fire instead, to fetch the pot of bubbling water before placing it on the floor, near the table.

 

“Here, help me with this,” Porthos beckoned, hands fumbling with the ties of Athos’ shirt. 

 

The garment was little more than a red ruin at that point, but until they could find a replacement, they couldn't just tear it apart. They needed to believe that Athos would need it later.

 

Once the older Musketeer was down to his breeches, the two of them carefully lifted him from the bed onto the table and turned as one, expectantly waiting on Aramis.

 

The marksman had set to work as soon as he had the boiled water nearby, meticulously cleaning every instrument that he planned to use, a trick he had recently learned from the court's physician.

 

It was a gruesome vision, one that never failed to send Porthos’ stomach into turmoil, whether Aramis planned to use those vicious-looking metal prongs and needles on him or any of the others.

 

“I need to flush the wound, make sure that no fabric remains inside,” the marksman announced, looking at them in warning.

 

Even using spirits diluted with a bit of water, this would hurt; each one of them was well aware of that from personal experience. It would fall onto Porthos and d’Artagnan to make sure that Athos remained still and allowed Aramis to work.

 

It took them over an hour to clean and stitch the wound and, by the end of it, all four were covered in sweat and exhausted, even if only one of them had the benefit of being too senseless to notice.

 

“There’s nothing more I can do,” Aramis let out, his voice hoarse like he had spent the last hour screaming instead of working in silent concentration.

 

“Will he recover?” d’Artagnan asked, giving voice to the question on all of their minds.

 

The marksman scrubbed at his eyes, looking tired beyond measure. More than tired, even; he looked defeated. “I cannot say,” he admitted quietly, looking at Athos' unconscious form. They had set him back in the bed, but even so he looked far from comfortable. “The wound was cleaned as best as we could, and if it does not fester, it should heal nicely. His lung, however…” He gazed at the other two in despair, biting at his lip. “Here, place your head over his chest, on the uninjured side,” he instructed d’Artagnan, who stood closer.

 

Porthos watched the young man do as he was told, catching his hair in one hand and carefully placing his ear on Athos’ chest. His eyes lit up as he listened. “Sounds like the sea, when you put a seashell to your ear,” he pointed out.

 

Aramis nodded, leaning back against the wall. “The air, passing through the lungs, causes that sound you hear,” he explained. “Now, place your ear below the wound.”

 

They both watched as d’Artagnan followed his instructions. “I can barely hear it,” he voiced after just a few seconds. “What does that mean?”

 

Aramis closed his eyes a moment, sagging against the weight of what the Gascon’s words meant. Suddenly, Porthos realized that his friend, rather than trying to instruct them in the ways of medicine, had been hoping to hear a different verdict from d’Artagnan’s mouth.

 

“It means that this might be well beyond my knowledge,” Aramis whispered, facing them with a sad look in his eyes.

 

~§~

 

The Duke of Rouen’s surprise at finding the Royal party at his gates, barely a day after the announcement of their arrival, had been poorly disguised.

 

The man’s naturally pale complexion had turned ghostly, even as he stuttered a half-hearted greeting.

 

The Cardinal cared not for what the man had to say. His attention, rather than being wasted on a minor noblemen that would never stand a chance to rise high enough in the court to pose as a threat, was preoccupied with more important affairs. Namely to find out if his orders had been carried out as planned and why they had been allowed to travel so far without any word of trouble ahead.

 

He had hoped it wouldn't become necessary to involve the Queen and the future Dauphin in his plan, for Richelieu had no intention of exposing the mother-to-be to unnecessary risks by forcing such a long journey at this stage of her pregnancy. If the men he had hired had done their job properly and in a timely fashion, there would be no need to even leave the palace grounds as it would become perfectly clear that the road was not safe.

 

The arrival of that cursed letter from the monastery had forced his hand, compelling the Cardinal to rush the journey to avoid any suspicion. Abbot François was a dear old friend of his family, someone who had been a part of Richelieu's life long before he took his vows, but the old man had been overly eager to welcome them. So eager that he could ruined entirely the Cardinal's plans without even knowing.

 

Long before they had ever reached Rouen, Richelieu had kept expecting to be met with what was left of those annoying Musketeers, carrying the news that Aramis was finally dead and there was mortal danger ahead, leaving them no other choice but to turn back. However, no word had come, which could only lead him to assume that they had failed, as so many had before.

 

The measures he had set in place for the eventuality of such a thing happening had seemed needless at the time, but the Cardinal had always been fond of being prepared. Even if, to do so, he had found himself consorting with a barbarian. That, however, was a sacrifice that he was prepared to make for the sake of France.

 

Richelieu crossed himself as he recalled the conversation with the exotic looking mercenary. He had met his fair share of sketchy characters, but the tall man, draped in dark robes and with the skin around his eyes painted black, had made the Cardinal wish for a weapon in his hands.

 

The man had been come with high recommendations about his effectiveness and discretion. He claimed to be a part of an ancient order of Hashashins, having travelled all the way from the far East to offer his services to any who could afford him in the Christian lands of Europe.

 

It was a peculiar fact that the Cardinal had no interest in, but the show of proficiency and ruthlessness the man showed when Richelieu had summoned five Red Guards to confront him, had truly impressed the First Minister. He had never witnessed anyone move in such a manner, robes floating like ink through the air, feet as dangerous and deadly as his hands and daggers.

 

He’d been impressed, but not trusting. Which was why he had hired two groups to achieve the same goal. The Persian was only to act, in any way he deemed necessary, in case the mercenaries failed.

 

And neither was reporting to say that Aramis was dead. It was...aggravating, to say the least.

 

“The Queen is not feeling well,” Treville said as he walked towards him. The man had not even bothered to change from his horsey and sweaty clothes, advancing through the fine corridors like he belonged there.

 

“It was a long journey,” Richelieu agreed, making a show of wrinkling his nose in distaste as the Captain drew near. “I am sure a good night's rest will do wonders for Her Majesty, before we resume our journey tomorrow.”

 

Treville's pursed lips spoke of a discontent that the man had not bothered to hide for the entirety of the journey. For once, the Cardinal found himself praising the other man's devotion and commitment to the King and Queen. It would be in everyone's best interest if the journey was delayed as long as possible, if he could not voice the sentiment.

 

“I'm sending a group of my men ahead,” the Musketeer's Captain announced curtly. “I do not trust the road ahead and will not risk Their Majesties to journey straight into unforeseen dangers.”

 

Richelieu pondered the outcome of such a measure. Any men riding out at this point would be sure to stumble across Athos and his group, and they would either return and report to Treville about finding their rotting corpses, or they would find them alive and become aware of the attempts on the Musketeer's life. Either way, Treville would firmly advise against the King and Queen going any further.

 

It had been a delicate and exhausting gamble, to apply enough force and enthusiasm that Treville would have no other choice but to send his best men to scout the way ahead for a journey that Richelieu had no interest in seeing the Royal couple undertake.

 

“If you deem it necessary,” the Cardinal finally said, molding his voice to sound appeasing and yet unconvinced by the necessity of such extra measures. “I shall inform His Majesty that we'll depart as soon as your men do their job.”

 

The gentle smile that graced the Captain's face made him look like a fool, thinking that he had won some kind of battle, when he wasn't even aware of what was at stake.

 

“The King has already been informed,” Treville pointed out, dusting off his hat before putting it back on his head. “He is also in no mood to endure our host and _his country-sided manners_ ,” he went on, his smirk expanding in the most annoying of ways. “His Majesty bids you to entertain the Duke in His stead, something that, I'm sure, you'll do with the utmost delight.”

 

The string of words that passed through the Cardinal's mind in that moment was, in whole, most unfit for a clergyman.

 

 

 


	8. The Persian

~§~

 

“One of us needs to ride out and warn t' Cap'ain of wha's going on,” Porthos let out after a long stretch of nothing but uncomfortable silence.

 

Night had begun to fall around them, but other than that, little had changed. While Aramis watched over Athos, making sure that no change to his condition went unnoticed, Porthos and d’Artagnan had swept the monastery in search of survivors.

 

The fact that there was none to be found had not come as a surprise to either man. There was not much that could be done about the dead bodies, other than give them some form of solitude and dignity in their death by covering the mangled corpses.

 

Twenty-six, they had counted, all murdered with some form of short blade, not a single gunshot to be found. More and more it became obvious that, whoever had been responsible for the murdered monks, it had not been the same group they had met on the road.

 

Not to be found as well, was the reason for such an hideous act. The sacristy, where they had found the largest number of bodies, still possessed all of its reliquaries, including a solid gold, ruby-encrusted crucifix, displayed on the wall like it was not worth more than what any Musketeer could ever earn in a lifetime of service. Robbery, clearly, had not been the reason behind such atrocity.

 

“I dare not go,” Aramis pointed out, his eyes barely lifting from the still form lying on the bed. On the floor, next to his feet, was a pile of books, every single one that could be found in the monastery’s repository that covered medicine and the study of human functions. “Athos’ breathing is getting worse and I do believe his skin is warmer to the touch,” he added, one hand moving to touch the swordsman's forehead as if to corroborate his own words.

 

Porthos moved closer yet, his brow set with worry, fingers moving to replace Aramis', “How much warmer?” he asked, frowning. The skin under his touch didn't felt all that warm or cold, just normal.

 

It wasn't like Aramis to make a mistake like that... “C'mere,” he beckoned, reaching out to touch the marksman' forehead instead. Now that he looked more closely at his friend, Porthos could see the slight flush to his cheeks, the warmth beneath his fingers confirming his suspicions.

 

“What are you doing?” Aramis asked, carefully, clearly thinking that the bigger man had gone mad.

 

“Athos' head isn't overheated,” Porthos pointed out. “Yer hands are...because yer t' one with a fever.”

 

Aramis snorted, taking a step back to effectively escape the other man's touch. “Nonsense! Why would  _I_ have a fever?”

 

Sometimes, Porthos was certain there there was a small child hidden inside Aramis' grown man' body...or a very stubborn old man. “Ya fell in the river,” Porthos simply pointed out, like it was something that had happened the previous month and not a few hours before.

 

The marksman stared at him, silently trying to convey how foolish he found the notion of being sick from falling into a river. Porthos stared back. He wasn't going to say that the reason why Aramis was becoming ill was due to his near-drowning, because Porthos knew that his friend wouldn't want to worry d'Artagnan or Athos. But he would not keep his silence if Aramis dared to open his mouth to point out that people fell into rivers all the time, most of them on purpose, and did not get sick.

 

Only when Aramis looked away, defeated in their silent battle of wills, did Porthos turn his attention to a silent d'Artagnan. “You or me, pup,” he voiced, automatically excluding Aramis from the equation. “One goes, t' other stays here and plays nursemaid fer them two.”

 

The young man bit his lower lip, pondering the choice. Neither of them wanted to leave his brothers behind, but they were both aware of the importance of informing Treville of what was going on. “I ride faster,” d'Artagnan pointed out with a shrug.

 

The big man nodded, recognizing that the boy's lighter weight was an advantage when speed was of the essence. “But I have t' most experience with ambushes, should any more of them bastards be waitin' fer us,” Porthos said in turn.

 

It was neither pride nor arrogance that guided the big man's words, but merely the testament of a soldier who knew his strengths and weakness, as they all did.

 

Athos was, without a doubt, the best swordsman amongst them, possibly even in the whole of France and, scarily enough, he was getting better every year.

 

Aramis had an uncannily sharp eye and aim, almost bordering on the unnatural and downright disturbing. His sharpshooting was such that not even the man himself knew his limits.

 

But Porthos...the big man was, as they had once called him, a one-man army. Once he decided on his target, there was no stopping the tall Musketeer from plowing through line after line of enemies to get where he wanted.

 

“You should both go,” Aramis pointed out, ending the stalemate. “Porthos is right, the murderers who laid waste to this place maybe yet be close by and try to stop any rider that they see pass--”

 

Porthos jumped to his feet, taking a menacing step closer to the marksman. “I'm not leaving ya here t' take of Athos, alone  _and_ sick!” he protested.

 

“But you would leave d'Artagnan to ride alone and face an unknown number of foes that may easily claim his life?” Aramis countered. “You've seen the bodies... twenty six dead men, fell down like it was nothing... this was not the work of a small group.”

 

The big man's hands turned into fists, his temper rising and flooding all strains of rational thought that kept telling him that Aramis was right.  _T' little prick..._

 

“Fine!” he let out, tension leaving his body as fear and worry replaced the anger. “I'll escort 'im as far as Rouen, but then I'm comin' straight back!”

 

“Do I have any say in this?” d'Artagnan tried, sounding slightly miffed at the plans being worked out _around_ him.

 

“No!” Porthos barked, as a softer 'No' exited Aramis' lips. Rubbing a hand sheepishly across his hair, the big man turned his gaze upon the youngest member of their group. “The damn fool is right, d'Artagnan...even if I don't like it one bit.”

 

“But--” the young man started again, his eyes trying to convey what he dared not voice.

 

Porthos was well aware that they would be taking a risk by leaving Aramis alone, with no one to watch his back but an unconscious Athos. In any other circumstance, it would be a daunting prospect; knowing that there was someone out there trying their best to kill the marksman, only made it worse.

 

While looking for survivors, Porthos and d'Artagnan had made sure that no locked room and hidden crook inside the monastery went unsearched; they had found no evidence of a living soul. A few cats and one large dog, but other than those, the two men were sure that the Musketeers were the only people alive in there.

 

Inside the monastery was the safest place for Aramis to be. And anyone waiting out there to kill Aramis would have to deal with Porthos and d'Artagnan first.

 

“It will be a day at most, to ride to Rouen and back,” Aramis reminded them, seemingly unaware of the silent conversation going on between the two. “Whatever you may think of my ability to stay alive, I assure you that both Athos and I are perfectly capable of keeping each other in one piece until you return.”

 

Porthos closed his eyes. He hated when people said things like that, teasing Fate into proving them wrong. Athos already had an extra hole working against his odds. And Aramis... he was _Aramis_.

 

~§~

 

Westerners were much too gullible and ingenious to the point of stupidity. All that he had required to become invisible to the eyes of the soldiers wandering the monastery was to wear a garment similar to the men who had lived there and to smear some blood across his throat. A children's trick.

 

The younger of the two had stopped beside him for a moment, only to drape a cloth over him and move on to the next body.

 

Gullible and ingenuous.

 

As had been the men who had opened the gates to him, welcoming their nemesis as if he were a friend in need of aid. Killing them had been no sport at all, merely a task to be overcome in order to achieve his mission.

 

His first target would seek the fortified walls of this place, either to rest and recover from the wounds suffered on the road or simply because it was their destination all along. He needed a place isolated and free of distractions to complete his task. Killing the monks had been little more than putting a whetstone to his blade to keep it sharp and accurate.

 

He had patiently waited for the group of outlaws to carry out their mission and, as he had predicted, utterly fail. After that, it was merely a question of returning to the abbey and hiding amongst the dead, waiting for his mark to be delivered into his hands.

 

One thing had left him... _bemused_ when the four soldiers had finally reached the monastery. The man in the elaborate dress, Richelieu, had paid him to kill a Musketeer, one with rebellious hair and brown eyes. And yet, the one who had been wounded on the road by the group of poorly-trained mercenaries, clearly had eyes the color of the sky.

 

Unless this Musketeer was a demon, capable of changing his own features, the road raiders had pursued the wrong target.

 

Gullible, ingenuous  _and_ simple-minded.

 

He had wondered about the wisdom behind trusting such an important task to simpleton ruffians with no weapons training or skills worthy of note. And it was an important task for certain...while the Cardinal had chosen not to share  _why_ he wanted this particular soldier dead, it had not been difficult to return to the First Minister's office and uncover the truth for himself.

 

To invite into the royal bed a man of inferior standing to assure the rulers' bloodline was more commonplace than those who ruled could ever imagine. Since the dawn of time, Emperors, Kings and Khans had resorted to such a scheme to avoid civil war in the absence of an heir.

 

It matter not, for it was common practice that the men used for such purpose to not live to see the following day, to assure the absolute secrecy of the matter. That this soldier, this  _Musketeer,_ had been allowed to continue breathing not only for days but months had been...foolish.

 

Soon, however, the matter would be resolved in a competent manner, the man thought, as he felt two of the soldiers walk by him and saddle their horses to leave. Risking opening one eye, he could see that it was the young one and the other who looked like a Moor, which meant that his target remained behind.

 

For a moment, the Persian pondered on the benefit of stopping the other two from leaving the island. With them travelled the news of the dead monks and they would certainly raise the alarm amongst their leaders.

 

He decided to let them go.

 

While most would see a raised alarm as a nuisance, the Hashashin saw it was opportunity born out of chaos. His second target, paid for by a different patron, would be traveling towards her death even now. Word of what laid ahead would increase the number of soldiers around her, trying to protect her life at all cost. Increased numbers that he could easily infiltrate to complete his task.

 

Because Fate was sometimes whimsical and, as Fate would have it, the Persian had been handsomely paid to kill not only the father of the child, but also the mother and child.

 

~§~

 

Aramis sighed in relief as Porthos and d'Artagnan rode away, the exhalation quickly turning into a coughing fit. He grabbed at his chest, trying to take hold of the stabbing pain and pull it away, impossible to grasp as it was. The marksman found himself fighting off the dark spots that had started to gather at the edge of his vision, tears leaking from his eyes until he could, once more, regain control of his breathing.

 

The sooner the others left, the quicker help would return and, from what he could gather of his and Athos' conditions, help could not come fast enough.

 

While his breath felt too noisy and wet, the other man's had turned hissing and labored.

 

It was hard to resist the temptation to keep his ear attached to Athos' chest, to keep reassuring himself that his lungs were still doing their job. Every time he gave in, Aramis could not help but think that he heard a little less air, a little more of nothingness where breath should be traveling.

 

To make matters worse, the marksman was almost certain that there was something very wrong with his own lungs as well. Shortly after arriving at the monastery, he had started to feel a stabbing pain on his right side every time he drew a breath, forcing him to take progressively shallower ones.

 

Now...now it felt like there was a block of stone on his chest, one that was getting heavier and heavier with the passage of time. The marksman had removed his doublet and loosened the strings on his undershirt, but nothing seemed to abate the feeling.

 

Aramis shivered, wiping the sweat from his forehead as he looked longingly at the fire that the others had fed before leaving. He knew he should be hot, but all the marksman could feel was the ice cold touch of snow and death inside him. Part of it was - _damn Porthos for always being right_ \- the fever that had started to take hold of his body, but some other part...

 

Twenty-six monks dead in a monastery... twenty Musketeers dead in the snow. The similarities were too great to ignore, no matter how hard Aramis tried.

 

He sighed, pushing away the phantom cries of the crows and returning his eyes to the elaborate handwriting of the book he was reading. If none of those books held no answers for him, Aramis was afraid that Porthos and d'Artagnan would return to find nothing but the dead inside the monastery.

 

He had raided the monastery's library in the faint hope that a solution for their situation might present itself by mysterious magical arts, a desperate measure to do something more than watch Athos slowly die. Aramis had expected to find a large selection of holy books and religious scripts in the dusty shelves, perhaps a tome or two from a couple of philosophers and freethinkers.

 

The monastery's library, however, held a surprisingly large section on exactly what he needed, amongst many others on the subject of the human body's functioning. One of the books was a large compendium on chest and lungs afflictions alone, though it seemed to be more inclined towards disease than actual wounds.

 

“The place sounds...awfully quiet.”

 

Aramis couldn't say what startled him the most, the sudden sound in the otherwise silent room, or the raspy, breathless quality to Athos' voice.

 

“Athos! How are you feeling, my friend?” he asked, placing the open book on the edge of the bed.

 

The injured man licked at his dry lips, eyes carefully looking around and examining their surroundings. “Like, I imagine, an...ant would feel...as a boot crushes it,” he offered, pausing to catch his breath. “Where are...Porthos and...d'Artagnan?”

 

Aramis placed a preventive hand over Athos' chest, knowing beforehand that the other man would take issue with what he was about to say. “They will return soon enou--”

 

“And you stayed! Why did... you stay?” the other man burst out, feebly fighting against Aramis' hold. “Of all the...stupid things...”

 

The marksman looked at his friend, confused. Had Athos expected him to leave with the others as well, abandoning him to his own fate in that dreadful place? ”Your mind has clearly been taken over by your injuries...” Aramis said, shaking his head. “Otherwise you'd realize the insurmountable nonsense you're suggesting.”

 

The eyes that fixed upon his face were red and tired, but they looked as clear and sane as ever. “Leave now...you mi--might still catch them,” the swordsman said, the words coming out as an order. “Please...do as I say, this…one time.”

 

Aramis was at a loss on what to say, whether to take Athos' delirious words seriously or not. In either case, there was absolutely no chance that he would abandon his brother in his time of need. “I'll fetch some fresh water,” he offered instead. “Everything will seem clearer once you've quenched your thirst, you'll see...”

 

As he rose to his feet, the Musketeer felt something grab at his hand, fingers too fragile to belong to someone healthy. “Stay...” Athos requested, his grasp too weak to hold any sway in whether the other man remained by his side or left. “'tis not safe...”

 

Aramis knew it was the wrong thing to do, that it was taking advantage of his friend's fragile condition, but he could not help himself. He was growing tired of the wall of secrecy and deceit that had seemed to have taken hold of their group of late. “Why is it not safe, Athos?”

 

The other man had closed his eyes once more, his fingers still wrapped around Aramis', refusing to let go. “Not safe...have to...safe...”

 

“Brother, please,” the marksman begged, kneeling beside his friend's bed. Athos' face was flushed with the effort to keep taking, pale skin covered in sweat. “Tell me why 'tis not safe...how can I protect you?”

 

Athos shook his head, hair curling and plastered to his cheeks. “Not me...you,” he whispered, making an effort to open his eyes. Through the slim sliver he managed, the swordsman peered at him. “They want you...dead...can't have that...”

 

Aramis sat back down with a thump, what little breath he had left abandoning his chest as the world tilted and refused to right itself. “What? Who?” he asked, half-expecting to receive an answer, even though Athos had already slipped back into unconsciousness.

 

Aramis' eyes fell on the bloody sash that he had discarded for fresh bandages. His sash.

 

Athos had been wearing it, on Aramis' insistence. Only to be injured shortly after, by a group of men who had been, apparently, hired to kill Aramis.

 

Athos had been hurt and was fighting for his life,  _because of him_ .

 

The marksman blinked away the sudden moisture that had gathered in his eyes, his gaze trapped by the sight of his friend, his  _brother_ , chest stained with blood, struggling to breathe. All because of a silly piece of blue cloth.

 

Aramis allowed gravity to take him, leaning back with his eyes closed. The cold floor felt like fire against his skin.

 

Truly, the blindest of men is he who does not want to see. And Aramis had been as blind as he could be about what was happening. He had known that Athos and d'Artagnan had been lying about the reasons behind the attack, and he _knew_ that, honorable men as they were, their lies had been meant as a protection. They had been protecting him!

 

Dearest Athos, hurt as he was _because_ of Aramis, still struggled to protected him from the crippling truth. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

 

Aramis clasped his hands together as his mouth whispered a silent but ardent prayer, begging God to right such a wrong. It should be him in his death bed, not Athos. God, in His mercy, could not ask such a sacrifice from Athos, not when Aramis would gladly offer his life in exchange.

 

Athos tossed and turned, restless legs trying to dislodge the feeble blanket covering him. There were words at his mouth, but no one else bu Athos could understand them.

 

The sound of a heavy book hitting the stone floor startled Aramis, the booming noise too similar to a musket being fired. His prayers interrupted, he looked to the side, where the heavy compendium sat, having missed his head by inches.

 

The marksman' eyes widened in wonder as he skimmed across the drawings and descriptions depicted on the opened page. Whether it was Divine intervention or the luck of the Devil, he did not care. The only thing that mattered was the fact that it was something that could save Athos' life.

 

Now, all he needed was to find a smoking pipe.

 

 


	9. Science of sorts

~§~

 

The water was already up to the middle of the horses’ legs by the time Porthos and d’Artagnan reached the passage to the mainland, at the bottom of the hill.

 

The Gascon found himself glancing back time and time again, unable to shake the feeling that something was not right. It was not something that he could fully grasp or even understand, like, he imagined, the ache of a phantom limb, causing pain and grief long after it is gone. It only worsened the further he got from that cursed monastery and their two friends, until d'Artagnan could hardly breathe.

 

Their two injured friends.

 

“Does any of this feel right to you?” he called out, his question stopping Porthos in his tracks. 

 

The big man scowled at him, looking past his shoulder at the hill that lorded over the scenery. To their left, the sun had just disappeared below the horizon, bathing the island and the surrounding water in a soft, red light that made everything look at the same time majestic and dangerous.

 

A castle shimmering on a mesmerizing glass field, sitting in the clouds, like in some children's fairytale.

 

“Athos' got a hole in his side, Aramis got himself a belly full of river an' there's a score of dead monks lyin' all over t' place inside tha' accursed monastery,” Porthos pointed out, turning to resume his path. “Not t'mention the someone wants our friend dead... nothin' feels ' _right_ ' right now!”

 

“Yes!” d'Artagnan agreed readily, shaking his head the following second. “I mean, no! That's not what I meant,” he went on, flustered. How did one explain a feeling, an ethereal concept that urged him to go back that very instant? “Don't you find it odd that on the very same day that we are attacked on the road, we stumble across the site of a massacre?”

 

“'These are violent times,” Porthos growled, his anger at both atrocities coloring his words. “Religious orders are no safer than t' rest of us.”

 

“Of course, but...” the young man went on, biting on his lip. Even in his head, what he was about to say sounded utterly insane. “What if whoever attacked us before _knew_ that we would take refuge here... what if they lured us to this perfectly isolated place to finish off whichever of us escaped the ambush on the road?”

 

Porthos stopped, frozen on top of his horse, his back rigid and shoulders tense. D'Artagnan knew that it sounded unreasonable to murder a entire monastery merely to kill a few Musketeers - one Musketeer - he reminded himself, if the villain's words were to be taken seriously.

 

“Tha's... t-” the big man stuttered, closing his eyes as he clearly tried to imagine a world where people were capable of such actions. “Why would som'one do som'thing like that? Those men were monks, not soldiers!”

 

“Maybe this isn't about Aramis at all,” d'Artagnan voiced, his face creasing in thought. “The King and Queen were supposed to visit this place, right? Maybe word got out, maybe there's a spy at the palace and this is some plot to mur--”

 

“T'King ain't here now, and he'll never be,” Porthos pointed out. “Because we're going t' get word to Treville and tell 'im not t'come!”

 

“I can't go,” d'Artagnan whispered, pulling away. “Whoever did this either wants this isolated monastery devoid of life to make it easier to kill the King, or wanted us to take refuge in there to kill Aramis...” he voiced, his words heavy with emotion. “Either way, Athos and Aramis will be dead by the time we come back,” he finished, trapping Porthos with his sorrowful gaze.

 

The tall Musketeer took his hat off, rubbing his hair through the bandanna wrapped around his head. He seemed undecided on whether to clock d'Artagnan on the head and just drag him away, or to abandon his duty, join him and return to their brothers.

 

The tide, however, made the decision for them. “I agree with ya, mate, I do,” Porthos finally said, his face twisting in frustration. “But t' water's too deep fer us to go back now...the horses won't be able t' go tha' sort of distance through water so deep and we're no good to nobody if we drown.”

 

The Gascon looked at the body of water that separated them from the monastery. The tide had moved in fast, already reaching halfway up the horses' legs.

 

Porthos was right. If they hurried, they might be able to reach the shore before the water completely overtook them, but there was absolutely no chance to make it back in time unless they decided to swim. “ _Putain!_ ” d'Artagnan let out in anger, closing his eyes in angry frustration.

 

By his side, Porthos was already dismounting to lead his horse through the rising water. “Look,” the big man said, pausing only to flip the reins over the horse's head. “T'tide should change in about twelve hours...we ride for Rouen as fast as we can, send a message t' Treville and hurry back in time t' catch t' passageway dry again,” he laid out. “Wha' do ya say?”

 

It was a good plan, d'Artagnan could not deny it. Still, it felt like they were abandoning their friends to their fate. “The both of us?” he asked, realizing that Porthos was, in fact, abandoning the original plan.

 

“T' both of us,” the big man agreed with a smile. “I have some coin left, had it saved for a bit of celebratin’ once the job was done with, but its best used to pay a messenger, yeah?”

 

~§~

 

She should have gone with them. That was the only thought running through Charlotte's mind as she raced out of Rouen to find Athos and the others.

 

Her Musketeer family.

 

After she had joined the regiment, the secret that she was actually a woman had lasted exactly three days before Treville figured out that there was something  _peculiar_ about the new recruit. The discussion that followed between the Captain, Athos and herself had ended, surprisingly, with her being welcomed to the regiment as the first –unofficial - female Musketeer and, unsurprisingly, with Athos cleaning the stables for the duration of the month for having lied to Treville.

 

It was, at once, the hardest and the most exhilarating thing that she had ever experienced.

 

It was something of a struggle to deny a part of who she was on a daily basis, even if hiding her womanly form from everyone had been easy enough. Her hair was short enough to pass for a man's length and her body, thin and lean by nature, seemed stuck in an eternal limbo between childhood and adulthood, unable to decide which way to bend.

 

In the end, the only real challenges had been remembering that her name was now Charles, or Charlie, as most called her; to keep her voice under control...and mind that the ones who knew about her true self behaved accordingly.

 

Keeping her in the regiment was a tremendous risk that Treville was willing to take, one that she thrived to prove right every single day. Athos' pleas for her case and the part she had played in rescuing Aramis had gotten Charlotte through the door, but that alone was not enough to keep her in the Musketeers, not with a Captain as demanding and honorable as Treville was.

 

If she was to wear the colors, she had to honor them and be up to the task just like any of the others. And Charlotte wouldn't want it any other way.

 

As it turned out, many of the skills she had learned as a thief came in handy in her duties as a Musketeer. She was fast of hand and quick of mind, and, according to Athos,  _passable_ with a sword...which on anyone else's terms, meant that she was pretty good at it.

 

Treville's willingness to make an exception for her was a blessing that she was grateful for every single day. It was something that she kept in mind whenever it was too hot and she wanted nothing more than to put on a dress instead of pants or wear less layers of clothing; whenever she rode out on a mission and had to be extra careful that the others did not see her taking a tinkle squatting down instead of standing.

 

But Musketeers were, above all else, gentlemen, a trait that made her existence all the much easier. Still, gentle as they might be, they were undeniably men at the end of the day. Good Lord... if she had to hear one more tale about their many female conquests or the prowess of their manliness...

 

Athos, Porthos and Aramis had been her saving grace whenever the men's world she had inserted herself into became too much. Even the boy who was always with them -well, the boy who was older than her, really - was a welcome change when she wanted to let her guard down and be herself for a few moments, free from restraints and without having to carefully consider every action she took and every word out of her mouth.

 

Because she knew the risks and the dire consequences of what Treville was doing, when the Captain had ordered that she and the others interacted as little as possible, she had readily agreed, not wanting her adventure to end at the end of noose big enough for her and her friends.

 

And it was a decision that she did not regret. Except, perhaps, when things like this happened.

 

Treville hadn't said a word, but she could tell that he was worried. There had been something strange about the whole journey since it had first been suggested by the Cardinal, and the fact that they had yet to hear from Athos and the others did not bode well.

 

The other four Musketeers riding with her were all seasoned soldiers and men she was proud to call friends. The concern for the welfare of their delayed companions and the safety of the King’s and Queen's lives were evident in their sour looks and the silence that had settled over the group as they marched the stretch of land between Rouen and the monastery.

 

“Over here!”

 

Saint-Dié's call made them all change direction from the main road and toward the river. As they got there, the older Musketeer jumped off his horse and leaned over something on the ground.

 

It didn't take long for the rest of them to see what he was looking at. Almost hidden by the shrubs and grass, was a man's body, the position too uncomfortable and still to be mistaken for sleep.

 

Once they spotted the first one, it was easy to catch the rest, all dressed in a similar manner, all equally dead.

 

“There's two more over here,” Aurillac announced from a distance, pointing at the ground near his horse's hooves. “Musket ball, right between the eyes.”

 

“Well, if there was any doubt 'bout who was responsible for this...” Bourges let out, coming close enough to admire what could only be Aramis' handiwork. 

 

Everyone else, no matter how good they were with a pistol, always opted for the safest kills during a fire fight, aiming towards either the chest or belly of their enemies, as they presented the largest targets. Aramis was the only one with confidence enough to go for a head shot. “But where in damnation are those bastards now?” he asked, scrubbing his beard.

 

There wasn't a sound to be heard, other than the quiet rushing of water and a few song birds. It was almost idyllic, if not for the dead covering the ground.

 

They could not see a single familiar blue cloak amongst the dead, something they were all grateful for, but neither could they find any trace of the comrades they were looking for.

 

Charlotte dismounted, leading her horse slowly as she paced what had clearly been a battlefield. It looked like that Athos and his friends had won, but why had they not turned back to report?

 

The answer was lurking just at the edge of her senses, even if she dare not voice it. It was the only reason that would force the four of them to move towards the nearest shelter rather than to Rouen.

 

It didn't take long for her to find what she had been, unconsciously, looking for. “Used bandages,” she announced, heart heavy as she picked up the soiled cloths for the others to see. “At least one of our brothers is injured.”

 

From the red-stained linen, it was impossible to tell which of them had been hit, or even how serious the injury was. Charlotte did not care who the blood belonged to, for any answer to that question would equally weigh her heart. She loved them all as brothers.

 

Aramis had been her first contact with the Musketeers. She had thought him to be a condemned soul, he had been certain that she was a ghost and neither of them had been that far off from the truth, in reality. Charlotte had met Aramis at his lowest, imprisoned, injured and alone, but even then he had seemed to embody the bravery and honor that commanded the Musketeers lives. He made her believe, once more, that there were good people in the world.

 

Made her want to be one of those people.

 

Athos, with his stiff way of talking and posture, but with a heart made of gold, had been the one to open her eyes to what truly meant to be a King's Musketeer, to stand for what was right and just, to defend and uphold justice and law in equal manners for all. At first glance, it all sounded a awful like a children's tale, a fairytale, but he had made her believe that it could become reality.

 

Growing up in the Court of Miracles, she had heard about Porthos long before she met the man. The legendary and infamous thief, the traitor who had started soldiering for the Crown. In a way, she saw them as kindred souls. She _wished_ , more than anything else, for them to be kindred souls, for only then could Charlotte aspire to rise from the gutter she had be born to and become a symbol of hope and safety.

 

And d'Artagnan; although he was only a recent acquaintance, she could see in him the same qualities and traits that had captivated her in the others. When she looked at him, it was easy to imagine the same recklessness, impetuosity and passion in Athos, Porthos and Aramis. She knew they saw it too. They cherish it dearly.

 

To see any of them hurt was to feel the pain herself, in a way that terrified her. She could not bear to lose another family as she had lost her first one.

 

And now that family was in danger. “They must've made for the monastery,” she thought out loud. It was not Charlotte's decision which way they proceeded, being a recruit still, but if Saint-Dié decided to go anywhere else but Mount St. Michel, she would turn tail right there and then and move forward on her own.

 

“Charles's right,” Puy, who rarely spoke, growled out. “We know they didn't turn back, so they've got to be somewhere between here and the Mount.”

 

Saint-Dié nodded, signaling the rest of them to get back on their horses. “We ride for the monastery then. Make haste, Musketeers! And keep you eyes sharp!”

 

~§~

 

Aramis looked at the collection of pipes in front of him, catching his breath. It felt almost wrong to go through the dead monks' personal belongings without their consent or say so, but necessity was stronger than his qualms and, in the end, Aramis had stumbled upon three different pipes that would suit his purposes. One of them, he believed, had belonged to the Abbot himself as he had found it in the only office room inside the monastery.

 

The easy part was to cut the ends of the pipes, leaving only the hollow pieces of wood that he would need for the rest.

 

Aramis looked at the book's illustrations again, the images nearly seared into his brain. His vision wavered as the world shimmered and dimmed around him, but there was no need to look at the book anymore.

 

It fit.

 

The lack of sound inside Athos' chest where he should be hearing air passing through and Aramis own inability to take a full breath without feeling like there was a block of heavy stone over his chest...

 

The marksman had suffered from a chest infection once, when he was still a child, living with his father. Aramis remembered all too well the feeling of congestion, the unstoppable cough that left him completely depleted of strength, of pulling in as much air as he could manage and still not finding it enough; he remembered all too well the looks grown-ups kept giving him, looks that quietly spoke of lost hope for his survival, condescending looks that said loud and clear that his illness was nothing but the result of his mother sins, punishment from God for the live that she lived.

 

What Aramis was feeling right now had nothing to do with a chest infection. For one, it had settled too fast, his breathing unravelling in a matter of hours rather than days. And the stabbing pain in his side that only got worse each time he tried to breath... he had never felt anything like that before.

 

What he could feel and the changes he could see in Athos' body and breathing seemed to be two halves of the same condition. For whatever reason, one that only God seemed to be privy to, he and Athos seemed to be suffering from the very same affliction in their lungs, despite the fact that his friend had taken a musket wound and Aramis had merely fallen into the river.

 

_'Drowned in t' damn river'_ , a voice inside his head amended, sounding surprisingly like Porthos. 

 

Knowing that time was running out for the both of them, Aramis hurried to clean the pipes as best he as could, making sure that the edges were smooth and without splinters.

 

When there was nothing more to prepare, he settled himself on the bed next to Athos, casting one last look at his friend. “Forgive me,” he whispered.

 

With trembling fingers, Aramis stripped himself of his shirt. A shiver coursed through his body, despite the fact that the room was warm and he felt like he was on fire.

 

Beside him, Athos' eyes were open, but Aramis doubted that his friend was even aware of where he was or what was happening around him.

 

It was best like so.

 

Aramis closed his eyes for a moment, ignoring the pain that came with every breath and the temptation to force air into his chest. Despite the death that surrounded them, he had not forgotten that they were in a holy place, in the house of God. “Please, God...just long enough...t'help Athos...that is all I ask...of You,” he pleaded, his hands fisting by his sides. With his eyes closed and in the dead silence of the empty monastery, Athos' breathing sounded even worse, uglier, like it might give up at any moment. He needed to hurry. “Allow me to draw breath...just long enough...”

 

The book said that he should aim for the hollow point between the second and third ribs. Aramis marked the exact space, two fingers of his left hand bordering each rib on his left side.

 

With his right hand, he raised his  _main gauche_ , carefully placing the tip of the blade between his fingers. “God help us all,” he whispered, pushing the sharp edge in.

 

Aramis had been stabbed before. He was no stranger to the agony that followed once skin and muscle were severed.

 

Now, however, there was no heat of battle to keep his mind from the pain, there was no swiftness or violence to lessen the blow, only slow torment as the blade moved inch-by-inch into his chest by his own hand.

 

The marksman blinked away tears and sweat that had pooled in his eyes, forcing himself to look at the progression of his work. It had to be nearly ther--

 

The barrier of muscle finally gave way into open space without warning and Aramis nearly screamed at the feeling.

 

“Almost...almost,” he whispered to himself, the words trembling as his lips refused to cooperate. His hands, for now, were steady, and he could only thank the Lord for that small mercy.

 

Grabbing the small dagger with his left hand, Aramis reached for one of broken pipes with his right. The wooden piece slipped from his wet fingers, falling to the floor with a muted sound.

 

He sat there, staring at the bloody piece of wood, helpless as it rolled away from him, too far for him to reach. “ _Merde_ !”

 

There were two pieces left, and one of them needed to go into Athos' chest. Aramis ran a hand over his eyes, feeling the trembling starting to take hold. He would have no time or strength to go look for any more pipes. Which meant absolutely no more mistakes.

 

Taking care to wipe his hand clean on his breeches this time around, the marksman reached for another pipe. Making sure that his hold was secure, he placed it beside the inserted dagger and pressed against the open wound.

 

Aramis' vision blackened for a moment, or maybe it was more, before his senses came back to the harsh sound of someone screaming. For one terrifying moment, he thought that maybe one of the monks was still alive and in need of help; only to realize that he had been the one screaming.

 

Relief filled his heart, quickly followed by shame. He felt spent, barely able to open his eyes to blink, much less walk around in search of a wounded man. So, there he was...thankful that all the monks were truly dead.

 

The realization that he had been screaming, therefore he had the breath to spare, came all-too-slowly.

 

Feeling like he was moving through a dream, Aramis looked down at his blood-covered chest, with a dark, wooden stick coming out a few inches above his left nipple. He took a careful breath, expecting the stabbing pain at any moment.

 

But it never came. Like a dying man walking through the desert, Aramis took one lungful after the other, rejoicing in the simple act of breathing freely.

 

He'd done it! By the grace of God, he had actually done it and it had worked!

 

Had he the energy to spend, Aramis would have probably jumped to his feet and danced around in celebration. As it was, he moved slowly forward, reaching for Athos. “Your turn now, brother,” he whispered.

 

~§~

 


	10. Reasons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long delay in posting this chapter. Life happened and she was one needy bitch ;)

The man stayed hidden in the shadows, quietly watching the Musketeer's fevered actions.

 

It took him a moment to realize that his mark, contrary to all evidence, had not lost his mind, but was in fact trying to achieve something. The procedure was well known in his homeland and the Persian had witnessed it being performed many times before by trained physicians. Never, however had he seen it done in such a barbaric manner.

 

He stood back and watched, mesmerized by the sheer willpower of one headstrong man. Headstrong but made of flesh and bones, and, from what he could see, the course of action that he Musketeer had chosen could easily end his life.

 

So, the Persian waited patiently, to see if there would be any need to finish what he had come there to do, or if the Musketeer would take care of the task for him.

 

As it was, the man was more resilient than what his looks led to believe. He seemed taken over by a superior force, guiding his hands and lending strength to his arms.

 

For a moment, the Hashashin almost admired that Musketeer. Aramis.

 

But only for a moment. He had been paid to do a job, a fact that he had not forgotten, and it was his task to make sure that this man would not be allowed to cast a shadow on the succession to the throne of France.  First, however, he wanted the Musketeer to know the reason for his death.

 

As a courtesy from one warrior to another.

 

That would come soon enough. In the meantime, he had some arrangements to make.

 

~§~

 

There had been no rest that night, something that both men were well aware that they would soon regret. But the heart listens to no reasoning, and both Porthos' and d'Artagnan's had spent the night filling their heads with terrible visions of their friends dying in the most gruesome and varied ways while they rode hard towards the city.

 

“A few more hours, perhaps,” he guessed, looking at the dark road ahead of them, thankful for the full moon to light their way. At a distance, they could easily see the monastery, its walls turned blue from the moonlight. “It seems so bloody peaceful from here...” the big man mused, gazing back. From that distance, it indeed looked pristine, bare of any signs of the violence and blood inside.

 

By his side, d'Artagnan nodded. There were dark smudges under his eyes, adding years to his face and making him look withered and exhausted. “We shou--”

 

The rest of the sentence died on his lips as the young man tensed and reached for his pistols in one single and fluid movement. He exchanged a quick look with Porthos before turning on his heels.

 

Hooves. The tall man had heard them as well.

 

As one, they each moved to one side, dismounting before taking cover behind the trees and raising their weapons.

 

As far as Porthos could tell, there were four riders coming their way, easy pickings for the two of them even in the dark. He took aim, ready to unsaddle the first rider as soon as he came into range...

 

The big man nearly dropped his pistol in fright as the horseman came closer and he realized that it was no man riding that animal. “Hold yer fire!” he nearly screamed. “Tha's Charlotte and our mates,” he added in a hushed tone.

 

D'Artagnan sighed in relief. Help had come.

 

“Yer a sight fer sore eyes!” Porthos let out as soon as their companions were close enough. “How did Treville know?” 

 

The looks of confusion on the riders' faces were answer enough. “Know what?” Saint-Dié asked, sliding off his horse. “Where are the others?”

 

“Bandits,” Porthos offered, sending a look to d'Artagnan. Until they knew for certain what those men’s intentions had been and who had paid them to come after Aramis, it was best if they kept some details to themselves. “Athos' hurt...Aramis' staying with 'im at the monastery.”

 

“And why are the two you on this side of the bank?” Bourges let out with a snigger. “Monks scared ya off? I hear the Abbott's a personal friend of Richelieu, so tha's scary enough on its own.”

 

“Well, if that is the case,” d'Artagnan started, “then we have some sad news to deliver to the Cardinal.” His face was grim and solemn. “They're all dead.”

 

Porthos, who had been gauging Charlotte's reactions from a distance, threw a look at the Gaston to mind his words. The young woman had turned white as sheet when she heard about Athos' injury and what had happened to the monks.

 

“You...” she started, coughing when the word came out as a very feminine squeak. “You left Athos and Aramis surrounded by corpses?”

 

“'tis not the dead we need worry about,” Porthos reminded her. “We need t'send word to t' Cap'ain about what happened here...tell him to keep the King and Queen safe in Paris.”

 

“Too late fer that,” Saint-Dié said, looking none-too-pleased. “We left Their Majesties at Rouen and came looking fer the lot of you.”

 

“Treville was worried ya might've lost your way,” Bourges added with a fond smile, unable to hide his relief at finding them alive.

 

“So, you two were on your way to report to the Captain, was that it?” Saint-Dié asked, eyeing the exhausted horses. “Planned to ride all the way straight to Paris, ready to leave yer mates to their fortune for a whole week?”

 

Saint-Dié had always been a suspicious little bastard.

 

“Whoever killed those monks might still be around,” d'Artagnan explained. “We had planned to make it to the nearest town and send a message to Treville. We wanted to make sure that Athos and Aram--”

 

“Your duty is to the King of France,” Saint-Dié cut in, needlessly reminding the young man of his task. “Not to your friends.”

 

“ _Our brothers_ ,” Porthos pointed out stepping closer to the other man, his hands balling into fists, “are in need of aid...I suggest ya send yer men back and tell the Cap'ain the news, while we go back t' help Athos and Aramis. Now.” 

 

From its very start, there had never been much room for rank and other military formalities within the Musketeers. Treville had always wanted it to work that way, all men with equal duties and benefits. A round table of knights of sorts.

 

There were, however, some unofficial ranks inside the regiment that had become natural and evident to all. For one, every Musketeer knew that when Treville wasn't around, Athos was the one in charge, even if Athos was the first one to rebel against such notion.

 

Aramis was one of the oldest and more respected amongst all the soldiers in the regiment, a born leader on his own merit, even if everyone knew that he was content to follow and remain in the shadow of Athos' leadership... when he felt inclined to do so.

 

And then there was Porthos. There wasn't a single Musketeer inside the garrison foolish enough to believe that Porthos would ever take orders from anyone else other than Treville, his second-in-command or Aramis.

 

Which meant that Saint-Dié would be a complete fool if he tried to do something different than what Porthos had 'suggested'.

 

“Bourges...you go,” Saint-Dié ordered. “Take Charlie with ya,” he said dismissively, not even looking at the cadet.

 

Upon hearing the command, Charlotte looked positively ready to desert the regiment right there and then if anyone forced her to walk in any direction other than the monastery.

 

Fortunately for the young cadet, Porthos caught the expression on her face before she could do something she would deeply regret.

 

“Charlie here's been takin' some lessons with Aramis on how to take care of wounds and things like that,” Porthos pointed out, meeting the girl's fierce look with a barely noticeable wink. “Wouldn't hurt to have another set of hands around...just in case he needs it,” the tall man added.

 

Saint-Dié opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again with a snap before a single sound could escape. Everyone knew about how close the new recruit had grown to the infamous quartet of Musketeers, a position that caused no small amount of envy in some of the others, who had been there longer and never had a chance to belong to the close-knit group.

 

It wasn't like Charlie got special treatment or better missions than the rest of them, it was just that...life seemed a little more colorful, a little more dangerous around that particular group, as if trouble was nothing but some young fool in love, following them around in search of attention.

 

Porthos' reasoning to keep Charlie there was, however, a valid one. Not many had the stomach to tend to the ill and the young recruit seemed to have a knack for it that needed to be cherished and preserved, for it was a skill the regiment desperately needed. If Aramis, the one Musketeer with the most experienced in wound-tending needed help, who was he to deny him that?

 

~§~

 

Porthos sat on the sand, watching the small island for any sign of their friends. He knew it was a fools errand, for small as it was, the place was still big enough to swallow the sight of anyone venturing beyond the shore and into the woodland surrounding the monastery. Cut against the dawning sky, the sharp-edged construction at the top of the hill remained shrouded in darkness, like a silent tomb. Devoid of life.

 

Something inside him was screaming, pulling at his guts, urging Porthos to get a move on, to get himself back to the monastery as fast as he could.

 

Looking at the place where the pathway was supposed to be, the Musketeer sighted. All he could see was dark water, waves big and angry, violently crashing against the shore with the sound of gunpowder explosions.

 

Still, all Porthos wanted to do was leave everyone else behind and try to swim for it. He would probably -most likely- die trying, but at least he would be  _trying_ , instead of  _sitting_ there, slowly losing his mind.

 

“Just a few more hours.” 

 

Porthos startled, caught by surprise by Charlotte's light feet. A worthy and valuable skill in their line of work, but one that Porthos' hated when used on him.

 

“Thought I might as well join ya before you decide to jump in the water,” the girl added, her gaze peering into the darkness, with as much success as he'd had.

 

“I wasn't,” Porthos rushed to say, sounding guilty even to his own ears. “Not yet, anyway.” If the damn tide didn't hurry up to open up a path for them to pass, he wasn't putting the idea completely aside.

 

“Porthos,” Charlotte whispered, taking a seat next to him. “What happened out there?”

 

The tall man sighed, rubbing a hand against his forehead. The whole thing was giving him a headache. “Yer guess is as good as mine,” he confessed. “There's some'ing fishy about the whole thing, if ya ask me.”

 

“How so?”

 

“Those men,” Porthos gave a nod of his head towards the place where they had left the bandits' corpses, even though it was miles away, “'t was Aramis they wanted dead, not Athos. Him being hurt was just bad luck.”

 

Charlotte's sharp intake was the only visible reaction she allowed herself to have, even if her face paled at the news. “Why Aramis?”

 

The older Musketeer punched the ground with such degree of violence that sand erupted into the air like a volcano. “Tha's the question, ain't it?”

 

“Is there a reason why y'er beating on the sand like it has offended ya? Was it something I said?”

 

Porthos looked at his hand, knuckles red from rubbing against the grains, and sighed. “It ain't what you said, it's what Athos and d'Artagnan ain't saying,” he voiced. “That question you've just ask? Not one of'em dared to ask it.”

 

Charlotte rubbed her short hair, casting a furtive look towards where d'Artagnan stood, brushing one of the horses. “I wouldn't think much of it,” she mused. “Perhaps they just had other thoughts on their mind.”

 

“Or perhaps they know t'answer already,” Porthos let out.

 

~§~

 

Treville had told himself that he would not spend the entirety of his day looking out the window, in search of any sign of his men in the horizon, like some damsel waiting on her betrothed. Instead, he found himself on top of the fortified wall, smoking his pipe and pretending that he wasn't searching for any sign of his men in the horizon. _Exactly_ like some damsel waiting on her betrothed.

 

It never ceased to gnaw at his insides, waiting for his men to return home safely. As a Captain, Treville knew that losing soldiers was an unavoidable part of the job, the worst, ugliest part. And he had lost so many already...

 

As it often did in those grim occasions, Treville's mind drifted to the days after the massacre in Savoy. The angst, the feeling of helplessness and guilt, the knowledge that precious lives had been lost for nothing more than political gambling and needless displays of power. That his naivety had gotten his men killed.

 

For some reason, those same sentiments had been filling his mind for the past days, ever since Richelieu had come up with such a foolish journey. Treville had been working with the devious Cardinal long enough to know there was something up his ecclesiastic sleeves, even if he couldn't prove it.

 

It was in France's best interest that the Queen gave birth to a strong and healthy child, preferably a boy. Given Anne's sad history of losing a child before birth, the Captain could not fandom a single reason worthy of the risks they were currently taking. If the Dauphin was lost for the sake of a journey the Cardinal had insisted on undertaking, not even the King would forgive him.

 

So, if not to risk the safety of the Queen and her child, what else could have possessed the First Minister to insist on performing a blessing ceremony that far away from Paris when Notre-Dame was just a short walk away?

 

Not for the first time, Treville's mind offered him with a answer to his questions that he still refused to accept; that the motive behind the Cardinal's actions had nothing to do with the Queen or the Dauphin, but with the Musketeers who would be involved in the mission. Like Aramis.

 

The events were still too fresh to be forgotten, and even if they were, Treville was not a man prone to forgive and forget.

 

Although at the time they had been unable to prove it, Treville knew that Richelieu had been the one behind the attack on the garrison, once again bringing grief and loss into his garrison.

 

His agent at the time, Rochefort, had been responsible for stealing important documents pertaining the Savoy mission, blowing up the Musketeer's garrison and last, but certainly not least, kidnapping and torturing Aramis.

 

And all of it because of some whispered rumor that Aramis had been a part of the mission and was the last living survivor.

 

It had taken some time and a lot of maneuvering on Treville's part to put the matter to rest and convince the Cardinal that Aramis had nothing to do with Savoy. Marsac's return, despite its unfortunate outcome, had been a blessing in disguise as it offered at once, a credible target for the Cardinal's machinations and definitive proof that Aramis was not the man Richelieu had been looking. A new target that the Cardinal could do no harm, for the man was already dead.

 

But... what if that hadn't been enough? What if Richelieu was still plotting to put Savoy to rest by murdering the last man, apart from Treville and the King himself, who knew the truth?

 

Treville shook his head, pulling a smoke from his pipe. He was being paranoid. Too much time spent in the Court instead of doing what he was good at, soldering.

 

There was a reason for all that was happening, Treville was certain of that. The truth, however, still eluded him. Perhaps once they reached the monastery he would find his answers. But for now, he just wanted to find out where the hell were his men.

 

~§~

 

Aramis gasped awake in complete darkness, the sudden intake of rushed air feeling like a knife, stabbing at his chest. He looked around, eyes fumbling with reality, pain clouding his thoughts. For a second, the Musketeer was completely lost on his whereabouts.

 

The sturdy stone walls and the ever present smell of melted wax were almost as familiar to him as the smell of gunpowder and straw from the garrison. He was inside a church... somewhere.

 

No! Not _somewhere_ , he was at the monastery of Mount Saint-Michel, surrounded by the dead monks that once took residence there.

 

Athos!

 

Suddenly Aramis could put a name to the sense of unease he had been feeling since waking up, one that had nothing to do with the ailing of his lungs. He was supposed to be taking care of Athos, but, instead, his senses had betrayed him and he had fallen asleep. How could he so irresponsible?

 

For all he knew, his brother could have died alone and unattended, as Aramis slept like there was absolutely no pressing matters to attend to. Fool!

 

Resisting the urge to slap himself, Aramis searched the room for his fellow Musketeer. Even in the dying light of the fireplace and the meager moonlight seeping through the high windows, Athos should be easy enough to spot, had he been in the same place they had left him, laying under the covers on the bed.

 

He was not.

 

“Athos?”

 

The rush of panic that took over the marksman was enough to erase all aches and pains and shortcomings he could have been feeling. Where the hell was Athos? How had he been able to even stand, let alone walk?

 

“Athos!”

 

Aramis searched everywhere inside the sick room, sure that Athos' injury would have not allowed him to wander far. However, it soon became obvious that the swordsman was not the in the room. Which left him with an entire monastery to search. Alone.

 

“ATHOS!”

 


End file.
